


Forward Momentum

by wintersnight



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deadpool cameo, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by incredible authors, Kicking ass and taking names, M/M, Sass becons sass, So does Bucky eventually, Thor needs a hug and some booze, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony is fun to write, Wanda is kinda watery, What to do about Clint Barton, Wit is a sign of intelligence, Writing again, You don't need a spleen to live, eventual OT3, steve has a crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 183,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of AoU and the new Avengers team created, the world has a team of heroes ready to stand and defend. However, something was always missing. It's time for the Avengers to move again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Press Release

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Many Tales of Mr Anthony E. Stark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939076) by [SkywardGeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkywardGeek/pseuds/SkywardGeek). 
  * Inspired by [Project Flag Bearer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4001257) by [ann2who](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ann2who/pseuds/ann2who). 
  * Inspired by [Building Sandcastles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012664) by [InsaneJuliann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneJuliann/pseuds/InsaneJuliann). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been drabbling in the Avengers.

“Stark Industries mogul, Tony Stark has issued statements regarding the Congressional meeting on Thursday. With approval gained for Stark to begin constructing a world-wide security organization in the aftermath of last month’s revelation concerning the infiltration of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division, known as _SHIELD_ , by the terrorist organization, Hydra, Mr. Stark has commented that this is not a duty he will take lightly; in fact, he claims,” the words begin to appear next to the anchorman, “ ‘We are in an age where more and more unknows are in the field and the everyman is in dangers he can’t even conceive. But hey, this is from a guy that sent a nuke through a space worm hole, so you don’t have to take my word for it. When the time comes, the world is going to need people that can handle large-scale threats the way most of us only read about, so I intend to be ready and do the things Iron Man always did: protect the civilians out there.’”  An image of Stark, hand held up in a ‘peace’ sign flashes next to his quote.

The anchor makes a generic statement, and moves on to the next international crisis.

Steve mutes the television, looking at the lingering photo of Tony for long moments before it fades into the next story. He sighs gently. Time for another call, just to make sure the fella was doing okay…

Pepper’s long strides are impossible to keep up with, but Tony has practice and lengthens his own strides to match one and a half of his for one of hers.  She’s talking easily, falling into their comradery easier than he certainly has. To her, he’s still the same guy she was nearly in love with, but even giving up Iron Man ( _again_ ) wouldn’t be enough to save them. Hell, after the whole “you get kidnapped and injected with crazy Extremis (but I _fixed_ it, so it’s gone),” she’d been pulling away from him, so much that he’d started to become lonely, chasing after her at SI. Then the “so I’ll just build an all-encompassing  AI to take care of the world and it will go _fucking bat shit crazy_ and take up Iron Man to save the world….again, just to retire….again” had been the last straw. They were on the way out before that. Ultron was the final good-bye. Pep was still the best CEO he could ever hope to find, always would be, and he could now dedicate himself to un-fucking his past mistakes with SI weapons tech.

Which is why she was still telling him about the slew of sharks waiting on him in the room down the hall.

“When have I ever let you down with these guys?” Tony smirked at her from the side, and that cajoled a rueful smile out of her.

“Do I really need to remind you of the ‘I am Iron Man’ press conference?  Or the, ‘I just made a billion dollars with clean energy, suck it GE?’  Any idea what a clean-up _that_ was? GE wasn’t happy, Tony.”

A deep rolling laugh came from him, a first in a while considering his life had been going to shit for too long now…

“We have most the United States, the UN, and hell, even Latveria is showing me support, and those guys don’t even support cancer research. We’ve got this, Pep. We just have to get the public behind it and get things moving. Maria is getting the people I need together and making sure every damn one of them is a _real_ agent, not some sleeper. The facility is ready, the Avengers are in their new compound,” his voice cracks only minutely, “we have green light. Let’s take it.”

She sighs, tapping again on her StarkTab. “No crazy declarations this time, and please, Tony, for my blood pressure’s sake, don’t say, ‘Fuck yeah, Engineers’ or ‘Shout-out to my MIT homeboys.’ Keep your preferences out of the press.”

“That was totally allowable, Pep. _Fuck_ yeah, engineers.”

“Regardless.”

“You suck all the fun out of being a wiseass.”

“Why do you think you hired me in the first place?”

The room goes silent when the double doors open. Tony Stark doesn’t even pause, keeps striding right up to the podium with a wave to the room full of journalists, photographers, videographers, and the like. Pepper has fallen a step behind him and takes a seat in the row of chairs behind him.

Stark looks over the rim of his lightly colored shades at the gathering, “We know why we’re here. Let’s skip the foreplay and get right to the down and dirty.” With his usual charisma, Tony grins and the hands start waving frantically, reporters calling his name.

“Let’s start wiiiiith…Marissa Matthews from the Times.”

Said reporter stands, slightly smirking since Mr. Stark chose her first. “Mr. Stark, you’ve received Congressional approval for your security firm. What are your next steps?”

He leans down, comically close to the microphone while looking over the top of his shades, “a glass of bourbon.”

The laughter shakes up the tension and Tony leans back up while Pepper closes her eyes for a moment behind him.

“No, kidding. Seriously. Rude of me not to offer the first round, but anyway, the first steps have to be about staffing. We need people that are the real deal, trustworthy, dedicated, able to stand up to the kind of insane, out-of-the-ordinary stuff we’ll be throwing their way.  We’re talking Science Fiction nightmare material, people. Aliens from other worlds are lower on the list compared to some of the things the Fantastic Four has been dealing with in the last few weeks. I mean, am I the only one that saw the lizards the size of a Buick? No, c’mon, you’re news people, you know. Anyway, it seems the public has finally come to realize some of the incredible things that have been happening in our world in the last two years since the Avenger’s first stand in this city—so, we’ve established a need for an emergency monitoring system.  During that time, the Avengers have done their upmost to keep innocent civilians safe, but they’re only five people, with the other groups of heroes, less than a dozen, so yes, finding the best support team to maintain public safety is number one on the big list.”

“Next question to—ah, is that the Best Anchor of 2013 I see in the audience? Ha, go ahead Jeremy.”

Jeremy Williams, notepad in hand, gives a small bow at the mention of his award and regards Tony with his acclaimed ‘critical eye.’ “Speaking of your team, Mr. Stark, in light of SHIELD’s contamination, what will become of the Avengers Initiative now that they’ve lost their primary support?”

“The Avengers Initiative will remain active,” Tony gives his charming smile, “without Iron Man” (and it’s a good thing he’s wearing the shades so no one knows how much it’s bothering him to be here instead of there…the eye twitch WILL go away eventually). He points a finger at himself, “retired, remember? Sure you do, but the team is still doing everything above and beyond their power to defend the nation, hell, the _world_ , from whatever baddie out there decides the US, Earth, our Solar System, what have you, is the bees knees and wants a piece of our pie.” Another burst of laughter, “but, seriously, people. The Avengers are doing the right thing for the right reasons, so keeping the Initiative is crucial and we will continue to stand with them and be their financial backing.” 

Mad scribbling as the mass is oddly quiet in listening to his answers. Sure, none of it matches _anything_ the PR department told him to say (Molly McCannon already knew he’d thrown the cards out the window within, like, five minutes, okay maybe three), but that’s what made the media calm from crackpot theories and speculation. Tony Stark telling it like it is.

“Next…and I have no idea who you are, but what’s your question?”

He’s gesturing to a mousy young woman with narrow glasses and colorless, professional clothing; her look screamed first press conference and she looked shocked he called on her, but she immediately stands up with her little note pad and clears her throat while the others in the room actually turn to look.

“Penelope Patterson from NPR. Mr. Stark, do you…do you miss being Iron Man? Does it bother you that your team is out there and you aren’t?”

Silence. Reporter _faux pas_ much? The media isn’t supposed to treat people like they have feelings and stuff.

Tony just chuckles and his grin is just this side of come-hither, “oh, I like you. You come back whenever you want.” He throws a glance at Pepper over his shoulder, “can she be my personal reporter?  Is there room in the budget for her?” Pepper gives her best, ‘oh Mr. Stark’ look and primly turns back to the crowd. “Seriously, how much is NPR paying you?  I bet I have better benefits.” While the young reporter’s face colors, the laughter fades again.

Tony shakes his head ruefully, “Seriously? No? Your loss, still, keep coming back though, I like you. But, to answer your question: of course, I miss it, sure. I could do a lot of good that I can’t do without the armor. The team, however, I know they’re kicking ass and taking names. I don’t worry about them—“ _liar, why are you still building shit for them then? Funding them so they have a home? You’re killing yourself over new material for Nat’s suit._ “I know they’ll give 120% every time they face the next big bad to beat on our proverbial door. They’re going to make sure the innocent civilians come first. The team has and always will have had my complete faith. Next question,” he leans over the podium and waves at her, indicating she get another.

The girl’s eyes widen that she has another chance, “Do you have any…reservations about taking the lead with Stark Security Analysis and Response Action Service in—in light of the Ultron event?”  Her tone is careful as if she regrets asking.

Tony hears the hitch and had a sudden appreciation for this little reporter from NPR. “I know the whole ‘road to hell is paved with good intentions’ yada, yada.” He talk directly to her, “and Ultron was, in essence, that.  The Artificial Intelligence that _became_ Ultron was supposed to be what SHIELD _should_ have been, a force to make sure any threat to the human race would be found out first so the possibility of another decimation could be stopped before it gets out of proportions.   The Chitauri attack was that _out of proportion_. Ultron was supposed to ensure no lives would be at stake in the first place. In theory, it was a good cause. Doesn’t make what happened any better. But,” Stark straightens, “I’ve already stood before Congress and sworn _no more sentient beings_. S.S.A.R.A.S,” he pronounces it SARAS, “will be manned by human beings with ethics, logic, and _a metric ton_ of failsafe protocols. Every major team and world police agency will have access to information—the way it should have been—and the so-called World Security Council is now out in the open and operating within the public eye. But, all of this is why the hiring process is going at a snail’s pace, we need to make sure the people that are with us are the genuine article.”

The young reporter is smiling at him, her face beaming. “Thank-you, Mr. Stark, for what you’re accomplishing here. I know you’ll do everything in your power to make the world a safer place.”

And that, simple appreciation from someone virtually unknown person he could have passed by on the street, made Tony Stark grin once again. “I will certainly try, Miss Patterson.” He holds up a hand, “all right everyone. Thanks for coming, grab some hors d'oeuvres on the way out.” He flashes his customary peace sign and turns to the shouts of his name and flash bulbs going off. Pepper and Happy are already at his heels by the time he hits the door, Security holding it open for him.

“I want her at the next conferences,” he says to Pepper first the moment the three of them are on the elevator, Happy holding the compact version of the Iron Man suit still in an ordinary-looking brief case because, well, you never know. Stuff, aliens, robots, giant slug monsters, stalkers, terrorists, ex-girlfriends… It’s the only suit he still had, even as old as it was, and could still probably hold up against the usual everyday catastrophe. He glances at the case meaningfully, it had been so long since he’d looked over the dinosaur, he really didn’t know anymore. Maybe that should be a new project… Tony shakes himself out of it, _retired remember?_

 “Absolutely, Mr. Stark,” Pepper is smiling, actually goddamned _smiling_. He did something right.

“How was that?”  He arches a brow at her as she still taps away on her StarkPad.

She takes a moment to glance at Happy Hogan, “probably the least clean-up I will ever have to do for you, Tony. I think it went great. The board is going to love it. Tony Stark being earnest in his feelings.”

Happy chuckles a bit, winking at Tony, “you were real good up there, boss. The public is going to stand behind you. If they don’t, well, screw ‘em.”

At that, two of his best friends rallying behind him, Tony has a strange feeling that things might be all right after all.


	2. Nice Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark doesn't like Medical

# Nice Things

Medical sucks. Fact. Try it for yourself and see if you don’t agree.

His side burns like a bitch and the ribs are tender, but all in all, he’s been through worse. Two words: Arc. Reactor.

Tony has already signed himself out of medical before the others arrive to visit him. They needed to get with Hill and the Surprise-Alive Colson (that just so happily decided he would take the job as the new Director of S.S.A.R.S—so _winning_ ) to finish up with the debrief.  Well, that gave him time to sign himself out of medical and get the hell back to the Tower. He hadn’t been able to do anything with the suits since he got back from that fight and if they were going to be moving back in, he’d have to start working _double-time_ , triple-time even.

All the floors needed to be checked again after the re-build, he would need new suits if he was taking up Iron Man full-time again, he needed to make a back-up arc reactor since he was on his last one, always more work to do for SI…There was so much to do. He had to get back and get started, now. Right now. Or sooner. Why do the hallways in medical have this crappy tile again? Unoriginal. Very boring. He’s more concerned with the crappy tile than the nice trail of medical personnel that are trying to coax him into staying. It helps his resolve that one of them has papers in his outstretched hand and damn it if they all don’t know about the thing. The _thing_ , the ‘don’t hand it to me’ thing. Everyone knew about the thing. Why didn’t they know about the thing? Enough of a reason to leave.

Even though he’s now the Head of Security at Stark Industries, Happy Hogan is waiting for him in the parking lot, reading the paper. Someone probably called him the second Tony started pulling out IVs and sticky monitoring pads. The guy looks great, awesome when he’s not in some hospital bed hooked up to a million machines and is grinning as he gets out of the car without being asked. Tony pushes him around to the passenger’s side so he can slide in the driver’s side himself and rev the engine.  Machines made him absurdly calm, and he would need the zen for the epic fuck-ton of work waiting on him at home.

“Boss,” Happy starts out hesitantly, “You sure you don’t need to stay longer?  I mean, the Cap seemed pretty fixed that you should stay at least until they got done at HQ.”

Tony waves the concern away but winces at the pull on the large laceration along his left side, the one that sent him to medical when the Avengers just _happened_ to show up in his Tower (probably to do something stupid like thanking him for coming out of retirement long enough to help them in the fight against Doom—with old as hell, busted up suits no less) and just _happened_ to see him changing the reactor (so maybe he took a hard hit, it happens) when it _kind of_ went dead. But, hey, Brucie knew how to change it and he’s good under pressure that doesn’t tick him off, so no harm no foul.

Reactor is good, everyone told him how much they missed the Tower (in not so many words, but more like, let’s get out from the new installation and let those guys have it so we can do what we do without eyes everywhere). So, they’d planned to talk to him about coming back anyway, the Doom bots just gave them a reason to hurry it up. Steve didn’t want to ‘rush him’ eight months after Ulton went down. Aw, thoughtful.

“Boss, you wanna pick up something? I mean, when was the last time you ate or slept?”

F.R.I.D.A.Y would know the sleep thing, but food, he’d eaten last night with the team. They brought pizza and sat in his room with terrible cable TV playing in the background and played Hearts (since Steve could actually play without losing his ass, the man’s poker face sucked) and everyone was getting sick of Sam’s weird Uno obession. The only one missing was Thor…who was dealing with stuff off world (or so Jane said in her last email on Monday and no, she had no idea how to get there by herself but she was sure she could figure it out with his help, bifrost smrifrost. _Science_ ).

 “We’re good, Hap. Ate last night, slept a bit, so I’m almost _normal_ , ick.” He eases the car into the garage at the lowest level of the Tower, “besides, you have a date with a certain CEO that really, and I mean _really_ , doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Tony eases the car into a space as Happy gave a little nod of agreement.

Hopping into his own car, Happy gave a little wave.

“Get her flowers!” Tony calls as the elevator opens. He doesn’t advise shoes because, well, that’s _his_ ‘oh, I fucked up’ present.

“Welcome back, Boss,” F.R.I.D.A.Y greets as the door slide shut and he’s breathing easier already. “There’s my girl, F.R.I.D.A.Y,” he jokes as usual and the smooth ride moves him up to the Penthouse. “We have our work cut out for us in the next week or so. I’m not sure when the others will show up, but…”

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he’s forgotten he’d turned the volume down.

“Stark.” He answers without pre-amble.

“Where the heck are you?” The voice thunders, the ‘what in the goodness sake’s alive do you think you’re doing’ tone. He’s still waiting for Steve to break out into, ‘oh my stars and garters!’ It could happen and it would be hilarious if it did.

“Cap! Thought you’d be in debrief for _at least_ three more days. Is Director Agent slacking over there? I’m his boss now, so you’d better tell me.” He’s grinning like a fool over the phone. Steve can probably hear it in his voice.

“Ton-ny,” uh-oh. Drawing out his name like that in warning, Tony is _still_ grinning.

“Ste-eve,” now he’s trying not to start laughing, but…his eyes are oddly…

Tony looks in the polished mirrored walls of the elevator, his eyes are shiny with unshed tears. _What the hell_ …?

“You left Medical after I _asked you nicely_ to wait until we were done with debriefing.”

Wiping his eyes with a shaky hand, Tony clears his throat. “Ah, yeah. Cap, I’ve got to make sure all the floors are ready. Everything needs to be stocked before you guys get here and I didn’t know when that would happen, well, I’m going to get the Medical floor here at the Tower up and operational soon, and then there’s the suit, you know? They’re just piles of metal, really. I mean, beat to crap. Well, the plans for the next SI location system are due by next week too, so in the interest of--”

“Do. Not. Go. Into. That. Workshop.” Perfect enunciation, Cap. Stunning.

Standing in Tony’s abandoned medical room, Steve heard that hitch over the phone and the strange quality of Tony’s voice. He was worried before they went to debrief, considering the scene the team had walked into yesterday: Tony laid out on his work table with the reactor half-way out of his chest, strained, exhausted, gaunt, and pale just before the darn thing went dark gave Steve all the motivation to _really_ worry. All the Ultron BS aside, Tony Stark was still one of his best friends and the guilt he hadn’t kept up with the man in the months after taking the killer robot down still ate at Steve. He’d sent emails, called every other week, he had _talked_ to the fella, sure, but he hadn’t come back to the Tower, hadn’t seen Tony face-to-face. It was his attempt to stop himself from feeling—he cut the thought off ruthlessly. _Friends_ , he thought a little helplessly.

“Tony, I’m serious.” He diverts his attention, “You know what, never mind. I’m on my way right now.” He looks over at Nat and Clint, lounging on and by the sink. They both also look very…unhappy to say the least. The bed shouldn’t be empty. Tony told them he would stay, darn it.

On the other end, the mechanic in question is already babbling negatives, that he needs a little bit of _time_ to get the Tower ready for everyone…Steve completely ignores his rolling ramble, well, knew him better than to just take his excuses and arches a brow at the other two Avengers.

Nat jumps down from the sink and takes the phone from his hand without a thought; she starts walking. He and Clint just follow behind her.

“Stark,” she says in a low tone. “If you are not laying down on the couch in the common room with The Empire Strikes Back when I get there, we _will_ have words.  Those words will be memorable. Do you understand? ”

A shiver goes up Tony’s spine from her frosty tone. At least she picked a good movie, but...

“Pick a different movie,” he says instead, “Steve’s seen all the Star Wars ones.”

“No he hasn’t,” she counters.

“ _There’s only three_ ,” he snarks back at her insistently.

She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

_Wow, that’s going to be good_ , _Steve watching terribly done Nazis?_

“Done.” The elevator doors slide open and Tony didn’t even realize he’s been holding himself up on the door by his free arm until the support is gone. He almost drops the phone when he stumbles into the silent common room.

“Tony?” Now there’s an undercurrent to her tone. Shit. He didn’t want any of them to worry.

He pulls the phone up again, bracing a hand against furniture he passes, “yeah. I’m here. I’m in the common room now, don’t worry spider-mom.”

Her eyes go over her shoulder to Steve and Clint, “we’re taking the Quinjet, S.S.A.R.A.S will give everyone else a ride back to the compound upstate. Tell F.R.I.D.A.Y to let us land.”

“Wasn’t a problem before,” he huffs out and braces himself for just a second, just a second…

“You could have already updated her programming since we’ve got you by the shorthairs this time.”

Tony wheezes out a laugh, “I’m fine, Nat. Seriously, I’m in the Tower with fucked-up suits, Happy’s with Pepper, Rhoadey debriefed with you guys. I’m not going anywhere.” His tone says more than words.

“We’re not going back upstate to start packing until we know you’re not going to end up like we found you,” she replies bluntly, anger leaking through her normally smooth tone. “So, the more you bitch and refuse to take care of yourself, the longer it will take us to pack.”

Crossing the room has left his legs weaker than they should be and Tony had to pause again, “floors aren’t ready. Want everyone to have nice things.”

“враки, дерьмо.”She spits out while making her way to the roof with Steve and Clint behind her, she just happens to reach out and snag Bruce’s arm, not even stopping her stride.  To his credit, the scientist doesn’t say anything but lets her tote him behind her by one wrist. He is completely not looking down at her bottom moving as they walk. Of course not.

The wall is a good place to sit and so Tony does, phone pressed to the side of his head. “Okay. I’ll have the movie on when you get here.”

“We’ll pick up food on the way. Get on that couch, Tony. _Stay there_.” She hangs up as they take the final flight of stairs.

He stares at the blaring dial tone, “sure. I will in just a sec,” but leans back against the wall and sighs. This isn’t how he’d planned on welcoming everyone back to the Tower, well, he hadn’t planned on doing anything but dismantling the remaining suits for something to do in retirement (totally a lie, he was going to mount at least one over the fireplace eventually).

He’d very _pointedly_ , **emphatically** not fixed any of the last three suits or built anymore. F.R.I.D.A.Y wasn’t JARVIS, she was good, she was quick to pick up on things and was learning rapidly how to keep things up in the Tower and SI, but he didn’t code her with the ability to help him in fabrication. That was supposed to be the _point_. Anything he needed for SI, he could do the schematics and initial build himself then send the rest to R &D to finish up fabrication. The arc reactors took him a hell of a long time now, but he could also build them, including synthesizing vibranium, on his own. F.R.I.D.A.Y could record the data, not calculate and execute a build. She was only installed as a secondary database in the workshop for a reason.

So, even with all the schematics in his head, he needed JARVIS to build and pilot Iron Man. By limiting F.R.I.D.A.Y, he’d taken himself out of the game, making sure nothing like Ultron would happen again, he had to make sure. He _had_ to know that capability would be limited (not that he wasn’t smart enough to still do damage, but he’d tried cutting himself off at the knees as much as possible).

Nope. Iron Man was a thing of the past without JARVIS, which had been perfectly _fine_. Retired. Yup, just business as usual. Until he flipped on CNN to check his stocks and got an eye full of Doom creations punching the shit out of Steve and breaking Falcon’s wing. He’d dropped his coffee cup, watching Steve fall twelve stories before he hit hard enough to kill him, super soldier or not. Widow looked like she was going to drop on her feet and Red Riding Hood was surrounded on all sides, eyes wide with panic. The new Avengers were getting their asses handed to them, even with Vision trying to help with air support and Macbeth back from whatever he’d been doing on Asgard. He’d thought they’d been together long enough to be in sync with one another as a team but watching the live footage gave him a frightening jolt.

“Shit,” he remembered saying (not about the mug or the coffee) before running full tilt to the workshop and digging out his only hope…J.J.

JARVIS Junior had been the last back-up, one he couldn’t have installed after everything was so fresh in his mind. But, against the Doom bots, he’d been desperate to get out there and _save them_. He couldn’t let that fucking vision become reality. He wouldn’t, no fucking way would they be piled up and bleeding out.

He ran the disk to be integrated in only the suits, uploading J.J. in the full workshop environment would take at least 72 hours and that was not time he had. Just updating the suits took longest twenty minutes of his life until that voice, now voice of The Vision, his…well, his living JARVIS, came smoothly through the suit’s speakers.

“Sir. Initiating ‘Damsel in Distress’ protocol.”

His heart had leapt at that voice, “all right sweetheart. Open up for Daddy.” The cold, metal hug was strangely comforting after almost a year of being out of the game.

“J.J., we need to make a ‘Save the Day’ protocol to deal with multiple portals to other dimensions.”

“Noted, Sir.”

“Jesus, I missed you, well, the other you, but it’s okay, isn’t it? Not offended?”

“Once I have uploaded the events of the past thirty eight months since my back-up, I do not believe so, Sir. It seems you have not been taking care of yourself as well as one would hope.”

The other suits in his wake, his attention divided between all three suits with J.J.’s help, Tony blasted the opening strains of “Thunderstruck” to be somewhat subtle before he plowed head-long into a mass of mechanical wanna-bes surrounding Wanda.  Her eyes were absurdly grateful before he took off, directing Mark 6 to the second portal and Mark 7 to the third. J.J. was already analyzing the structures and make-up before he could ask. Besides, he was the only back-up in the air since Falcon was down a wing and Thor was on the ground by Hulk. Surprise, surprise, Captain Idiot was in a free fall from a skyscraper, _again_.

“J.J., patch me into the comms,” Tony held out his arms accordingly, adjusted his acceleration so he wouldn’t do more damage to Cap just by catching him.

The extra weight slowed him down a little, not enough to touch the suit, but Steve’s face behind the cowl was totally worth the surprise visit.

“Communications open, Sir.”

“Hi honey. Did you have a rough day? I mean, you hardly ever call, never write. What’s a girl to do?”

“ _Tony_?! Of all the times to—you know what? Last week I emailed you about how red curtains would clash in your workshop, so I don’t want a guilt trip.” The soldier’s arm tightened around the suit’s shoulders as they came to rest on top the building again and the old instincts kicked in like he’d never left it.

“With all the chrome, red curtains would totally rock,” he argues smugly. Left hand up, palm out, repulsor blasts all around.

“Cap, DUCK.” Lasers shot out, cutting the bots into pieces.

“Sir, Mark 6 and 7 are in position, Sir.”

“Give them a little fun times, J.J., let ‘em roast some tin cans. Seriously, you built a one-of-a-kind metal suit and all these guys just line up to try it too. I mean, really, these are so terribly pathetic, I almost feel sorry for them—“

Cap raps sharply on the side of his helmet with the knuckles of one hand. Tony turns with the sparking arm still in his fist, held away like it was repulsive. “What?”

Steve’s eyes are sparkling blue and he’s smiling through the blood and grime all over his face, “I missed the _hell_ out of you. Did I mention that yet?”

“Gasp! Captain America—“

“—You say language and I swear, Stark—“

“Hey!” Clint burst over the comm, “can you two trade witty repartee after we’re done with the killer robots and interdimensional portals, please? Seriously, Stark, he’s been a moody pain in the ass for months.”

Steve just sighs and shakes his head, “this from the guy that throws a tantrum if there’s no little _marshmallows_ for his hot chocolate.”

“Well, that’s—that’s just. What’s life without fucking marshmallows in hot chocolate, Cap? It’s a _necessity_!”

“As much as I’d love to leave you to your bromancing, boys,” Natasha deadpans, “we have _portals_ to close. Three of them. Get it together.”

“Killjoy,” Hawkeye comes back at her.

Steve and Tony just exchange a glance, hindered by the faceplate, but the two part in agreement. Steve takes a voluntary running leap off the roof this time and Tony takes off to start cutting his way through robots while J.J. calculates the needed force to close the portals and lines up Mark 6 and Mark 7. He relays information from J.J., his overview, and warnings when he can, giving the Avengers air support they desperately need. He slides back into his role without much thought, really.

The two suits shut down the portals without much resistance (since even his suits in shit condition could trump anything Doom could make on his best day) and Tony was finally able to rip the controls and power supply out of the last. The jolts through his system, through his suit just reinforced how much more thoroughly he should have considered that strategy since the arc reactor stutters in his chest for a few important seconds.

“Fuck,”

“Sir! The surge has damaged the reactor’s main casing but, fortunately, not housing unit.”

“Shit, I haven’t made a spare yet.” _Double shit_.

“Iron Man?” Clint’s voice finally comes through the slight panic, “Stark? Copy? You okay there?”

Deep breath, “hey, Hunger Games, glad the threat is over. Come visit some time,” then he cuts off the comm line and is in the air, trying to get back to the Tower as fast as possible to get a new reactor made before the one in his chest gave out.

The new one was done in twenty-two hours, a record, since J.J. could function as Iron Man software from the suit.  Took some fancy maneuvering to calibrate all the equipment by himself. Lack of sleep, healing, and food, starting to get the two changed out is where the Avengers surprised him. For some reason they were totally going to talk about later, F.R.I.D.A.Y hadn’t told him the Quinjet landed on his roof or the big old group of heroes standing outside his workshop banging on the damn door. He assumed Pepper, not worrying since she’d changed the reactor herself before. He didn’t expect the group of them to come in and see him in a tank top with the malfunctioning one halfway out of his chest.

_“Shit_. _”_ Yeah, that about covered it, and, as usual, none of them took his crap but pretty much corralled him into Medical for the doozy of a cut on his side. Steve made sure they grabbed the pizza, though, and the lot of them stayed with him well into the night.

Hands on his shoulders wake him sharply but he doesn’t remember going under. His back is protesting still being on the damn floor when there’s perfectly good couches across the room, but the expression on Bruce’s face indicates he doesn’t find any irony in the situation. Yet, to see him here in the room he built for congregation still makes him happy through all the aches and pains and dying reactor incident. _They’re coming home_ …

“Jolly Green, is Nat pissed I don’t have the movie ready?” He braces both palms against the wall and starts pushing to get his legs to work. Bruce grips his biceps to pull him standing with an unexplainable exasperated expression. Tony just can’t understand it but still looks up the few inches to grin at his Science Bro.

“I’m relatively sure that’s not the reason she’s pissed, Tony,” his arm is already being pulled over Bruce’s shoulder and they shuffle over to aforementioned couch. “F.R.I.D.A.Y? Help us out with some Raiders of the Lost Ark, okay?”

“You got it, boss.”

“Epic,” is lost in his grunt when he folds down, sprawling out by the arm. Bruce pulls up a whole lot of table directly in front of him, giving him the stupid _concerned_ look, like, the look that says ‘I’m totally worried about you but I’m not going to _say_ I’m worried because you’ll get angry and throw me out a 68 story window since I can’t die anyway.’

“I’m fine. Had worse. Stop with the look.” Tony makes a motion with one hand, “and seriously, like you don’t miss the lab you have here? I know you do. I know you _dream_ of beakers, centrifuges, thermal cyclers—“

“Stop deflecting,” the man replies with a grin. “I miss you more. The…Other Guy needed some time, couple of months. We came back to find out no one was in the Tower anymore and I don’t know—“ he shrugs, “I could understand if you needed time, too.”

“Sure it wasn’t because I convinced you to help me build a totally genocidal robot?” He grins but the question still has bite.

Bruce still gives him a hard look, “you didn’t need to do much convincing, Tony. I’m a big boy Scientist too. My curiosity was just as intense as yours.” He leans over, wrapping a hand around the mechanic’s wrist and twitches when his fingers almost touch. _Okay, talking to Steve about this later when they get back with food._ “Let me make sure you get this: **We** made a mistake. It happens. Just, with people like us, it can have much larger consequences than the run-of-the-mill, uh-oh we have the Bubonic Plague running rampant. We keep that in mind, we’ll make better decisions and not try to wipe out human existence.” Bruce is grinning at him and Tony’s tense muscles can ease a little more.

“Now, F.R.I.D.A.Y is going to pause the movie until Steve and Natasha get back with our take-out and you are going to let me see how well your side is doing. Once I’m satisfied, you’re going to kick your legs up, let me cover you, and eat as much as you possibly can before you pass out to sleep for a full night.” Bruce ticks them off on his fingers. “Any questions?”

“Brucie?”

“Yes, Tony?”

“Welcome Home, to the Big Guy too.”

*Nat is calling Tony on his lie; translation: bullshit.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to work Tumblr, help me out: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iphoenixrising


	3. To Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The God of Thunder deals with the aftermath of Ragnarok (post AoU) in order to re-join the Avenger's Initiative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Feels. Just Thor feels. I'm sorry in advance.

When he was changed, forced into a mortal form, part of him was horrified at the weaknesses and part of him was strangely…relieved.  As a mortal, the burden of rule was taken off his shoulders; for the first time in his expansive existence, he had no need of battle, of being under intense scrutiny to ensure each action would be made for the good of the nine realms, of making the ultimate sacrifices to be the King that was _needed_. He has always been a _Visi_ or “Prince” as Midgardians speak, and he knew no better until his time in exile. It had been the most troubling and freeing times of his life, for he had not realized how many burdens he bore as one of the sons of the All-Father, as the son that would step up to take his place.

Meeting Jane (along with Darcy and Erik) who had allowed him his foul-ups and his shaky attempts to be normal, had been a new experience for they _expected nothing of him_. They had not befriended him for his power, his position, or his protection; they knew him as a man lost in the world and had taken them into their fold to help _him_. They did not paw over one another in an attempt for his favor or vie to become the next Queen should he decide to choose his bride. None asked for his support in law or in government or made demands of him to ease their lives. Those on Asgard, on his returns from war, never hesitated to make their grievances known to him, to demand he play the diplomat and cater to their whims for every trite matter. The All-Father threw him into the pack of wolves at every chance, putting his son’s skill and charisma to the test ( _He must know **more** than to swing a hammer; he must know how to **rule**_ ).

Jane, Erik, and Darcy had given him coverings, had put food before him made of their own hands, and kept him as safe as he would let them even though they him to be _beygja hugr_ , afflicted of the mind. He had not experienced such a phenomenon as selflessness and not to the extents these Midgardians demonstrated. Thus part of the reason Midgard was his favored realm, even over Asgard, is this part of mortal nature. They knew more of sacrifice and righteousness than any others. In such a similarity, the Avengers were as Jane, Erik, and Darcy, regardless of Loki’s interference.

Once the dreaded time of his prophesized demise was over, the realms saved (yet again but not without its’ own price), he and Loki had their moment. With the All-Father awakened and Loki reaching out for him, taking his hand and calling him brother again, he finally felt like he could stand. Yet he would never admit how much he trembled when his brother embraced him, or how Loki finally relaxed in his arms when Thor again, wholeheartedly, reminded him that parentage mattered not to him—Loki was his brother, always would be, nothing would change it.

Apparently, he should have been trying harder to make that lesson known. The sheen of unshed tears in Loki’s eyes had convinced Thor of his sincerity. The utter hopelessness he’d seen in those eyes, as though being controlled by the Chitauri, had determined his fate and therefore he would do more to bring himself further down, had faded once he had taken the smaller man in his arms like when they were just children.

The All-Father had apparently seen through the many veils Loki possessed and had also taken him in his arms, whispering what exactly, Thor could not say. Whatever it was, however, the sheen in his brother’s eyes had overflowed.

Once the aftermath had eased a bit, Thor had faced Loki and the All-Father again with straight-back and told them his plans. He would dedicate time to Midgard and the Avengers, Loki and he would _share_ power in regards to the throne that they would be victorious working together for the good of the nine realms. Loki had the charisma and mind needed to manage every-day duties the realms desperately needed while Thor was the strength and strategy—on matters of state, they would convene and agree on solutions together, as it should have always been.

The All-Father took this news surprisingly well, more so than either brother would have expected. Loki, however, had seemed dazed of this obvious solution, following him out of the Great Hall like a dog upon his heels.

“How could you even suggest such a thing? Have you no sense? Do you not remember the crimes I have committed against all of Asgard? Against your precious Midgard?”

Something in Thor’s eyes, much older since the horrific events of Ragnarök, or expression when he turns to the trickster makes the smaller man quiet himself. Loki’s eyes take on a different turn, “Brother…” and it’s the first time he’s been called that name in so long. Thor does not reply, he has run out of sentiment since losing him the first time and he no longer feels as though his words have power. His brother has not believed him to this point, so why repeat the same lamentations over and over? Thor just stares down at him wearily, Mjolnir dangling from his fingers.

Loki glances around to see if anyone is about before taking Thor’s arm and guiding him to his chamber, a flick of his hand scattering servants away from their cleaning and arranging. Nimble fingers removed his armor, the weight so much heavier than normal, then he was pushed to lie down, covers arranged over him.

“You will rest yourself, Thor. We will…discuss this ridiculous notion when you awaken.”

“It is the only sane answer,” Thor replies gently, “even the All-Father knows.”

“Nonsense,” Loki rebuts helplessly.

“Before…I had the honor to meet Jane, I was not a man worthy to rule. Loki, I am still not, I never will be, and it shames me to be so wanting. I cannot be what Asgard and all the realms need in a single man, for I am not—“ he falters, “—I am not _made_ to be so.” His brother’s mouth opens, jaw working, but no sound emerges; it’s a first time he can recall Loki ever being rendered speechless…

Thor leans up on an elbow, “Yet, with you by my side, with you ruling _with_ _me_ as equals, then _we_ can be the monarch the realms need. You are everything I am not, everything I cannot be.” Exhaustion was creeping up on him, “Loki, I need you. I cannot do this without you. Please…” Before his eyes closed, he saw the most curious expression cross his brother’s face. _I am but a broken man…_

**

And the All-Father must also recognize his son is much changed from his trials. For his opinions of Midgard and Thor’s penchant to protect it are no longer a point of contention between father and son and Loki seems also to allow Thor his fixation. As to why, Thor cannot say but he is relieved when the All-Father not only grants him leave to return to the Avengers and Jane, but is completely unprepared when Father praises him, out loud, before the court, for his defense of a _worthy_ realm. The speech itself struck him dumb, staring up at the throne with wide eyes until Loki’s hand on his arm reminded him where he is and who is watching. 

In the same gathering, Loki is bestowed honors for his valor and awarded his deserved place as emissary to learn to rule at Thor’s side when the time came. The All-Father made no qualms about stating the exact nature of Loki’s sins, but his voice rises to carry among the gathered masses; he begins with the loss of Frigga and states Loki’s actions through the consistent turn of events that brought them in congregation that day.  As Thor expected, the people of Asgard, knowing what lengths Loki went to aid Thor in saving them all from utter destruction and chaos, cheered for his bravery, his loyalty, his near death.  The All-Father, looking down upon them, added a small concession that perhaps _he_ too had judged too harshly in that as a father, it was his duty to be the worst of all critics on those he loved.

And again, Loki seemed not to know how to react to such a statement or to the trust the people of Asgard returned to him with their faith in his ability to rule justly (if not with the occasional trick as he was wont). As well as it turned out in the end, the victory is still hollow. The heart of him,that which made him stand against any who dared seek harm against his own, had left him. Thor knew he was not the same man, _could not be_ the same man any longer.  With his thoughts churning, the celebration is only a blur in which he cannot stomach neither food nor drink but only stands on the farthest balcony to stare out into the night. He does not move and others do not come for his company. Sif, at one point, was the only one brave enough to approach him, her hand upon his arm to try and gain his counsel; but how, _how_ , could he admit to one of his closest confidants of these thought, of his dishonorable thoughts…

Loki, after some hours, comes to find him. He is in one of his rare good moods, as he has earned, and ruddy with health and drink.  Thor is surprisingly happy for him, satisfied Loki will have a place without resorting to his trickery; finally, he will no longer feel like the outsider and the Thunderer has no qualms in telling the other how utter proud he and how thankful he will always be to simply have a sibling willing to stand beside him.  It is a moment long overdue them, one he should have repeated over and over during their youth (as he has always felt such), and he will rectify this oversight now. He will no longer allow Loki to believe himself an intruder in his own family.

Of course, his brother simply sighs at him, eyes lightening a shade of the normal jade, and leads Thor down the great halls with a hand upon his arm.

“I have always respected your strength and morals, Thor. Never doubt that,” Loki begins as they walk, finally away from the merrymaking, “but you lacked foresight. The only thing of consequence for you was _winning_ , even in a battle where you may have been aligned on the wrong side.”

Thor sucks in a sharp breath and ducks his head, listening. Those days, those days before Jane, before he took his time to weigh the odds… “I lacked wisdom.”

“You lacked sense, brother,” Loki returns wiry, “you possessed every ounce of _heart_ , every throw of your hammer a strike from your very soul…but, look at where it has brought you even now?”

Loki pulls his arm so they are stopped, facing one another in the gilded yet empty hall. There, the smaller man takes his time to examine Thor’s visage, trying to find something Thor is not certain exists within him any longer. He may imagine it, but Loki’s eyes seem to soften.

“Thor…” he opens his mouth to speak and seems to change his mind, trying again. “Perhaps you should simply focus on being grateful. You have beaten the Fates themselves, your consort is alive and well, our Father has acquiesced to your request as patron to Midgard. For now, you need to look at what you still _have_ rather than what has been lost.”

At that, the Thunderer’s eyes heat and sheen over. Horrified at his weakness, he turns away from Loki without a word and makes his way to his own chamber for some kind of solitude. If not for him…if not for _him_ , the horror would not have befallen Asgard, blood would not have run in rivers under his feet, Mother, Balder, and Tyr would yet live. At the servants in his chambers, probably waiting to attend him after the festivities, Thor gives a hoarse growl of an order, “Get. Out.” to send them scurrying away. It almost occurs to him to put his fist through the looking glass, to crack the shards, shatter the mirror image of himself and finds he cannot raise his hand to do even that. His own eyes are haunted by his failures, his weaknesses, his loss and all the thoughts weigh on him as he strips his garments away and lies without rest.

On the morrow, he is ready, bidding his remaining family farewell, he returns to Midgard without looking back.

Alone, he walks the path to the Bi-frost, eyes lost in nothingness rather than on the road before him.  He does not take to the air but trudges along without even Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, or Sif to see him off. They, too, have abandoned him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I have no idea what’s going on with the Thor feels (actually, there are two others that just break me a little for the poor guy/God); no clue where it came from. It’s a deviation from the norm, but that’s okay. Even without knowing much about the Ragnarök story arc, I see it as a breaking point for Thor; he was supposed to, was expected to, die and his survival is pretty crazy. He almost has survivor’s guilt. So, sorry if you’re one of the “he’s a God, he can’t be weak” people because, well, even a god has to fall.** Second Note: *there may be more feels. I have a feel for Natasha and Wanda, definitely for my OT3, and Clint and Bruce…oh my. There may be feels dispersed throughout Tony’s wit. Btw: this style of writing was Thor’s voice, he just kind of sat beside me at odd intervals with his head down this is what came out of it.**


	4. Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs a sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order for this to make sense, I had to add "To Rule" so Thor's story would click.

_Natasha_

Pragmatism is the most desired trait in her line of work, and she has been pragmatic for the majority of her life. At one time, she had worked her way up high in the ranks of the Red Room training program and could have realistically continued on that path in the goal to gain the most freedom and choice she would ever have. Instead, she chose to break her handlers and move on to next organization with more to offer.

Her choices to bring about the best solution to the end goal are what brought her here. Had she not joined the KGB, had she not been one of the best spies without qualms to hunt prey, she would not have made SHIELD’s most wanted list and thus never met Clint Barton. She would not have changed sides to and break into the Avenger’s Initiative. Rather, the subject of her ledger would be a hollow one for no one tome would have been able to contain the endless marks of her sins.

In the here and now, her best option is to remain in the compound and keep an eye on the growing security firm to assure the contamination wouldn’t happen again; more so, she should continue scouring for secrets, confidential information to be certain leverage would always be on her side. It is simply the most realistic choice.

However, she is standing in her issued room after a difficult mission, and as had happened only once before (a decision she regrets for very different reasons), she is not thinking in terms of the next most practical move. The cause for this change is, ironically, all due to the _room_.

It’s a sterile environment, the same composition of white walls, chrome furniture, and created for utilization. There is little in this room that would give her regret for leaving it—as she has felt for a thousand rooms before it. There is nothing of which she would cling to in this space, and few belongings that are actually _in_ it at all: a shampoo bottle and soap in the shower, four shirts and a few slacks aside from any undercover clothing, a small television, her weaponry, her suits, and a small blue box no bigger than a book. She could realistically leave this room now and never return, would be no less for it should the compound be overrun.

Nothing holds her here. In the past, this was never an issue, but was the _point_. It made picking up to leave simple and efficient, it made creating the other egos simple, nothing to hold them either; it’s the only way she knew how to live. With years of practice in movement and leaving no trace behind, this room should not bother her as much as it does.  The irritating contrast, however, is in regard to her room at the old Avenger’s Tower.

Through the last eight months of living upstate, she has found herself wondering if her room is gone, re-made as a standard guest area without vestiges of her time there. A pang of regret follows these musings in an off-balancing, uncharacteristic way. Her first stay, post-New York invasion, had been slightly _uncomfortable_ , even with Clint staying part-time. She had never lived with other people after the Red Room and had never really had a room that she could call ‘her’s’ specifically. She had only stayed in allotted spaces, assigned areas designated to sleep and maintain hygiene. These were not spaces meant to hold pieces of her, knickknacks or pictures, mementos and _things_.

_“Okay, here’s your floor,” Tony gestures with a flourish when the elevator opens._

_“My floor, Stark?” She echoes, looking around with professional curiosity, expecting the same sterile environment that has become rote._

_“Yup! I ordered some stupid stuff, like art and whatnot, so you’ll have to tell JARVIS more about what you like and get some of your own things to spice it up. You know, make it so very Russian Barbie.” He winks at her, opening the fridge in the floor’s kitchen to pull out two bottles of water._

_Her expectations are apparently low. The kitchen, bar for eating, and living room are all visible from the elevator (not enough hiding spaces but the vents are accessible) and oddly…comfortable. Shades of browns and tans, windows covered by gentle curtains that could be released for privacy. The couches are suspiciously worn-looking, battered and over-stuffed for being new, but the effect is all the same. Something in her rises to this space (mine…)._

_Stark gives her the water and motions down the hall. He taps a door knob on the way, “guest room, guest bathroom, hall closet but seriously, I have no idea what Pepper has stocked in there, so don’t ask. Stuff, things, knives, bombs, extra sheets, could be anything.” He pauses after the last door, “this is your room.”_

_Her brow arches, but he holds up both hands in surrender, “I’m just curious, I haven’t even seen it.”_

_“Why not? It’s your Tower,” she retorts._

_“Well sure it is, my name was on the front at one time, but this floor, the room, it isn’t mine.. It’s yours. I got it stocked with the necessities, but JARVIS has your calendar booked for four hours tomorrow to go over everything. So, don’t skip out.” Without opening the door or even touching the knob (strange since Tony touches_ everything _), he gives her a wave and walks away whistling, hands in his pockets._

“I miss my room.”

Natasha Romanoff is startled that she spoke out loud.

Several months later, she is repeating the process with Tony (who she is more affection with now), riding up to her floor with him while he babbles on about the damages and clean-up, the time taken to find the old ballet posters she had hanging up in the main room (one from the original Миллионы Арлекина), the few knickknacks that had been broken and replaced, but all in all, the floor had remained relatively unscathed. He’s still pale but at least he slept through the night; she’s stayed in the communal floor with him. Trust him to insist on going with her up to her floor when she wanted a nice, hot shower.

“And, no one went in your bedroom,” he repeats. Again. What the hell did he think she had in there? Massive spider cages? Pentagrams and goat heads? Every weapon known to man? She was a superb assassin as a necessity, but she usually didn’t take work _home_ with her. “You know, because _reasons_ —“

“Like no structural damage from the outside to indicate such?” She answers, looking bored.

“Well, yessss.” He pouts at her and almost manages to wring a smile before the elevator doors slid open. _He really does tie with Steve for my third favorite_.

He gestures for her to go first and follows with hands back in his pockets, looking around for some imaginary spec of dirt or something, she’s sure. As for the initial inspection, Natasha takes her time. She observes the walls (same color, fresh paint), the same couches (ones that seemed to cradle her after an achingly long mission that ends with Ben and Jerry’s), her bar (her personal choice of high-backed stools still there), her posters and knickknacks on the stands. The smell of jasmine from her wax burner a sweet scent in the room. She barely realizes her muscles relax.

“Oh,” Tony mumbles easily, “I forgot to mention,” he opens a cupboard in the kitchen, gesturing to the neatly placed dishes. “Nothing was broken.”

Her breath catches a bit as he takes out a plate and holds it up for her inspection. As something so trivial in her life, she is absurdly relieved when she takes the plate from his hands, her thumbs automatically tracing the delicate pattern on the outer rim. The set is antique and took forever to collect, originating from the Peterhof Palace near St. Petersburg, and is one of the very few things she can say for certain exists in the back of her memory—her _real_ memory, not the programmed memories…

She steps past Tony to look in the cupboard herself, eyes counting the plates, serving plates, cups, saucers…all there. More than once, one of the others would come eat to be able to look at this set or the gold one from the Imperial Palace in Livadia. More than once she’s caught Steve using the patterns as boarders on his sketches of the New York skyline or Bruce choosing a specific cup and saucer before even asking her if she would like tea.

“I’m glad,” Tony says from beside her, a silly smile on his face.

She starts and…is holding the plate to her chest like it’s a child, with utmost care. Hastily, she sets it back on top the others and returns his smile with a genuine one.

_Dr. Banner_

Schedules and organization still make him itch. It’s a mental quirk that he will eventually get over, but four months and god, _years_ , wandering over worn-torn, third-world countries had its effects on him mentally and physically.  He doesn’t like to be closed in, doesn’t like to be trapped, doesn’t like to be _managed_. The Other Guy, usually not happy when he’s not happy, agrees.

 

Well, he explains to the guy, it also partially due to all those times escaping maniacal Generals and laboratories that lends to his current restlessness.   Yeah, the other guy gets it.What he doesn’t get is why they’re still _there_. He didn’t like this place, even with Steve and Natasha (who still had problems with ‘them’) living here as well, the other guy just wanted to break the walls out and _run_. Bruce had taken great pains in explaining why that would not help the situation. While he was not personally enjoying the new compound housing the Avengers Initiative, he was a man that was tired of being on the run. Yes, he did enjoy helping people and having some kind of exclusivity out in the world, but he, as he tried to make the Hulk understand, was a man that was worn thin of running away. He needed companionship, friends, a lab, a purpose, and fighting with the team had given him more than he initially realized.

 

After the battle with Ultron, it had been Hulk, not Dr. Bruce Banner that ran away (so maybe that wasn’t completely accurate, but Hulk knows the doctor isn’t ready to admit it out loud to himself yet. They had both been of similar minds when they piloted the Quinjet anywhere, just _away_ ). Coming back, especially to the team in upstate New York and away from Avenger’s Tower, both he and Hulk had been…upset. Being on a compound was too reminiscent of the days when _he_ was the test subject, when they just wanted to make him a weapon to be controlled, contained until they needed him. He’d forced into routines and schedules and…here, it was the same. When to train, when to eat, when to see the next psychiatrist, when to mediate, all of it was dictated in a strict regimen the made him undeniably twitchy.

 

However, he and Steve had a long talk one night after the others had gone to their respective rooms. They talked about Ultron and Tony’s inability to handle anything either than blame and guilt; Steve insisted the engineer needed _time_ to get it, confided in him that Tony was still sending them inventions and upgrades, and Steve had slipped him the info on their comm systems so Tony could hack it whenever he wanted. Bruce recognized the wistful expression on Steve’s face, and he apparently wasn’t the only one missing the big hearted guy. But, in that same conversation, Bruce had to make Steve understand his part in the whole fiasco. It wasn’t fair for Tony to take all the blame, for his _nightmare_ of everyone dying to be a reality if he could fight it. So, he told Steve the majority of what really went on in that lab during the conception of an omnipotent AI. Even for a guy still somewhat lagging behind in the technology and science fields, Steve had taken it all in with more than a rudimentary understanding. At the end of the night, they had shaken hands again until Steve used the hold to pull him into a big bear hug; it had been jarring, but then again, Steve was the affectionate type and refused to be afraid of the other guy.

 

“We missed you, Bruce.  I’m so relieved you’re back.” Bruce believed him, so did the other guy, but alone in his “room” later on, he missed more than the team.

 

_“Re-making an entire floor for me is a waste of your resources,” he observes mildly._

_“Whaaat? Of course not,” Tony’s brows rose over his sunglasses, “you’re like…my Science soulmate, Brucie-Bear. I love you like I love my suits. Whole-heartedly! Besides,” the engineer waves away Bruce’s protest, “you deserve something to come back to, you know?”_

_Dr. Banner can hardly argue with that logic, not like it would help if he did. Tony is like a force of nature, an unstoppable whirlwind of activity. Once he set his mind on something, it would happen. Bruce wonders how Pepper ever puts up with him._

_The elevator slides open, “okay JARVIS, let the good doctor have some light.”_

_When the lights do come on, Bruce can’t help but be floored. His eyes widen and a short, “whoa,” is uttered into the non-Tony full space between him and the open elevator doors._

_“Dr. Banner?” JARVIS questions gently._

_As if he’d been woken up, Bruce moves out of the elevator to look around. The open floor plans makes some tight knot in his chest ease down a bit since he can see all corners of the room (no way anyone can hide in the corners, around the cabinets maybe since the kitchen area is a little more raised than the rest of the room). Windows line a full wall to give the illusion of more space and make the other guy sink back a little in reassurance. He hated feeling trapped by anything, even sitting in a room for a long period of time was unnerving to the guy. From everything they’d been through, Bruce could relate. Hulk only felt secure in a lab under Bruce’s control._

_Easing down his strict hold on the guy, Bruce takes the few steps up to look at the kitchen and bar with stool around for seating. His kitchen was nicely done in a forest motif, the wall behind the counters and appliances painted as though he’s looking through tall grass. The countertops as a smattering of greens and browns. The refrigerator was ridiculously big and stocked to the gills, just making Dr. Banner shake his head a little in the excess. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d been scrounging for food alongside skeletally-thin children in Honduras._

_He steps down to look at the living room, charmed by the back wall mural full of scientific breakthroughs (from articles about Tesla’s coil to the discovery of gamma radiation with a picture of him in the paper). However, he breathes at the amazing mandala painted on a wall opposite the abnormally large television along with a carpet containing a large meditation circle in the center. The room was in muted colors, nothing too sharp and contrasting to take his attention away from easing down. It was…more thoughtful than Bruce could have expected from a billionaire that piloted metal suits and he finds himself scrutinizing the man more as he looked out the windows over New York City._

_“The hallway,” Stark begins as though he can feel Bruce’s eyes, “has a guest room, guest bathroom, bedroom, and a miniature lab, nothing like what we’ve got downstairs, but just something so you can stay on your own floor and run analysis without having to leave if you want…The last two doors, well, those are something for the other guy. Make sure he sees it, okay?” Tony turns long enough to give him a grin then walks toward the elevator with his hands in his pockets. “I’ll let you get settled, just let me or JARVIS know if you need anything. And, you know, feel free to change things to your own liking. Order what you want.” The elevator opens smoothly as if it was just waiting for him and Tony give a final wave before he’s gone._

_The other guy perks up and Bruce obligingly meanders down the hallway, still looking around at the framed articles Tony thought would peak his interest or inspire him to move on with being a scientist instead of a recluse. He opens door to look at the plainly done guest room (still top-notch quality), washroom, and the third door on the right must have been one Tony was talking about. His eyes shoot open, jaw dropping open at the utter **massive** bedroom done in green and gold. It was absolutely huge, containing a corresponding bed bigger than any normal guy could get in, a television, and two windows. In some attempt at humor, Tony had hung a few posters of kittens around the room, one dangling precariously off a branch with the text, “Hang in There,” one laying down with paws over its ears, “Monday’s are a drag,” and more. Crazily enough, the big guy is grinning like mad, so happy he has **his own room**. He’s never had a room before, nonetheless one that could actually fit his size. The other guy’s new favorite person is, well, Tony Stark after this._

_The other Hulk specified room is more practical and Bruce has a moment to sigh in some kind of relief. It’s a containment room, similar to the one on the Helicarrier, some place for him to go if he can feel the big guy starting to break loose. Bruce is absurdly grateful._

 

Cleaning his glasses, Bruce stretch his back just enough to get a series of pops and instantly feels better. He’s just going to see if there’s any extra clothes to get a quick shower before going back up to watch another Indiana Jones movie while Nat and a still-alert Tony argue about how many Star Wars movies are in total. He feels a little like Steve in that argument, as in, he can’t figure out why a few more movies added to the franchise is any big deal. Now talk to him about _Star Trek_ and he’s on your page.

 

The elevator doors open gently and Bruce sighs, feeling the other guy echo him when _their_ rooms are in view. Not much has changed, a new coffee machine, a bigger toaster, but everything else looks the same, even his carpet in the living room is still there. He makes his way down the hall, ducking a head into his own lab to look at his neatly stored papers (still in the order he’d left them) as well as the various machines littering the counters and tables. It doesn’t look like anything has been disturbed since he left…of course, Tony would want to keep everything in order for the chance that he would come back. With a shake of his head, Bruce heads to his own room and pauses.  The bed is still made, the bathroom door open, and…the t-shirt, one much smaller than one he could possibly wear, is still on the foot of the bed where she’d left it that morning.

 

Slowly, he moves across the room, eyes half lidded and pick up gently with both hands. He presses it to his nose and smells the gentle jasmine that still clings to the material almost eight months later. He sighs to himself, sadly, and feels a buoyant lift, like the Hulk trying to make him feel better.

 

“We messed this one up, big guy,” he says instead, his hands suddenly feeling raw with the imagined skin between them, when he’d gripped her bare ribcage and ran his palms up to…

 

The shirt falls out of his hands and Bruce turns sharply away. Now was not the time for this, not with her upstairs and still hurting. He could give her the distance to hurt as she needed. Instead, he goes to his own shower and closes the door.

 

_Wanda_

The elevator ride is not comfortable for her, even with Mr. Stark talking animatedly. She watches him in the shine of the doors, and very much tries to stay out of his wavering thoughts. New York City is very big and busy; she has been to big cities, many of them war-torn, but she recognizes the beauty of them even in the dirty and dinge of their gutters. Here, however, in this Tower that will house the Avengers, she cannot shake the unease at depending on Mr. Stark when he so plainly has not recovered from the mental destruction she caused. He is still haunted by the images and even her assurance she was going for his weaknesses will not rid him of that powerful fear.

“So, we’ve done the little tour except for your floor.” He is saying, tilting his head so he can see her face around her veil of hair. “What do you think?”

She says what she thinks he wants to hear, “it is all very impressive, Mr. Stark. You have created quiet an…environment.”

“Ah, was that a compliment? I’m going to take it as a compliment,” he teases, “and please, _please_. Mr. Stark was my father, and I’m not a fan, so Tony, just Tony, is fine.”

Flustered, she finally looks at him, “I apologize, I—“

“Nope, it’s fine.”

The door slide open and save her from more embarrassment. Her eyes widen, “I did not think you were _serious_ about an entire floor.” Her boots made soft sounds on the carpet as she steps out before him.

“Of course I was. This is all you.”

“But-but I do not need—it is a waste of—“

“Not if it makes you happy,” he replies easily. “Besides, after what we do, saving people and kicking ass, well, it’s nice to have a place that just…a sanctuary, you know?” He walks to the kitchen first, opening the fridge to pull out bottles of water for them. She, however, is stuck just outside the elevator doors, looking around in wonder. The kitchen is a soft lavender with maroon accents and new equipment. She…she hasn’t ever had anything she could count as _hers_ , not like this.

_If only Pietro…_ Shaking her head, she joins Tony in the kitchen, letting him open the cabinets to show the dishes with tiny flowers around the rims. They are lovely, and she smiles down at the one in her hand, being gentle with it. _Hers_.

He starts down the few steps to the main room, both arms out to encompass the room and she grudgingly follows (even though she wants to go through all those cabinets to see what other surprises are there). Once she looks to the main room, however, she is in awe.

“I know it might be a little, well, _childish_ , but I can totally have it re-done if you don’t like it. New paint in whatever color you like.”

She gasps in a surprised breath at the gentle walls painted as though she were outside in a field, the bottom a garden of diverse flowers, painted so real, so _vivid_. She reaches out to touch the flower garden, _her own flower garden_. This man, it’s like he is the one with this power to see inside of people, and here he has given her the outside in a place that would be for her alone.

“I figured you’d been inside for long enough, why not have the outside inside?” His tone is joking, but she had been inside Tony Stark’s head. She was aware of his utter selflessness, his desire to give, to fix. She had impressions of his past, knew that he was a man that understood _pain_. It was a pin point in his soul, in his mind that spiraled out of control once and a while since he tried so very hard to keep it contained and out of the way of his goals. He was such a fighter, such a man of worth.

She moves down, a brightly colored window painted in the wall and there, instead of another scene, was a large frame with several pictures separated in their own displays: a photo of her mother holding them when they were infants, the two on the first day of grammar school holding hands before the destruction touched them, then several  security shots of them—one at a café and Pietro was smiling in his charming way, one outside of Moscow not long after they had escaped and grasping hands desperately but laughing like fools…Further down, the first photo the new Avengers had taken standing awkwardly but smiling, the next of her with Vision looking down in to her face with a slight smile…

“Wh-where did you find these?” She whispers with a tear-clogged throat, not turning from the images of Pietro.

“The internet is a many splendored thing,” he replies but so very gently to avoid hurting her. “I was able to hack some files SHIELD had left over from Hydra, have F.R.I.D.A.Y scan old security footage. I’m so sorry if this isn’t okay, I can have them replaced with something nicer, maybe some art or something if you’d like to keep these somewhere—“

She already turned, arms crossed tightly across her chest, and moved purposely across the room to him. He’d stopped talking and stayed still when she lay her forehead on his collar bone and just stood there. She did not attempt to wrap her arms around him to thank him for such a _gift_ as this; his unease still floated around him like a cloud of cologne at the edge of her consciousness, but she is the one that needed this. When her eyes spill over and her shoulders tremble just a bit, she clenches herself harder to gain control…

She feels Tony’s mind brush against hers, _“still just a kid. Only a kid…_ ” and his whole aura seemed to ease before he lies his cheek on the crown of her head and wraps his strong arms around her back. He feels, in this moment, the same loss of loved ones that she does, the failure to save them, the guilt for surviving. He is a man that understands _pain_. And together, they stand.

_The Captain_

His legs hold him until he gets to the sterile environment they call a bunk; it’s a close thing.

Once his door is closed, he falls down heavily on the government-issued mattress and lets a long sigh escape him.  He sets the shield by the head of the bed, arms aching from a long as heck fight.  When he can get up the inclination, he’ll peel off the uniform, get a shower, and maybe make a bag of that microwaveable popcorn Sam seems to inhale. Just a few minutes to sit is all he needs.

The room is still dark, only light shining in from the outside flood lights to emphasize the dirt and grime all over him. It hadn’t been a good mission, well, if he was completely honest with himself, no mission was a good one. That’s not the point of what they do, come in when the police, the National Guard, the Armed Forces are out of their league. But, since the old team disbanded and the new ones stepped up to take up the mantle, he’d been doing his best to prepare them for the worst.

It seemed he wasn’t doing that great of a job.

No fault lie with the others; some of them green around the gills to the whole hero thing. He remembers a time when he was still figuring out how to throw the darn shield without taking someone’s head off; heck, he remembers when the Commandos were just a bunch of guys running around willy-nilly before he figured out how to rein them all in to work _together_ as a team. Once he had, they’d been unstoppable. It had taken him time to figure out their strengths and weaknesses, the put them together with the other that could off-set for the best results. Once he had, Hydra started dropping.

Buck used to say he had a mind for war.

With a shake of his head, a weary hand pulls of the hood so he can be Steve and not the Cap because Steve was a weary fella at the moment. That fella lets himself fall back on the bed so his back and shoulder muscles immediately thank him; it feels like he’s been throwing the shield non-stop for _days_ against a virtual army under this dame calling herself Madame Hydra.  Oh, wait. Yeah, he had been.

Four long days of no sleep while he guarded the team for their rests, infiltrated enemy ranks, fought flashbacks, beat soldier after soldier after soldier…It was trench warfare all over again. Non-stop. He kept himself together for everyone, but now that he was alone, safe, the world safe, he could shake a little. One gloved hand falls over his eyes as his breathing starts to get erratic: _bombs going off, blood mixing in the dirt to make slippery-as-shit mud, hauling Dum-Dum up by the arm and taking a slug…_

“Ground Control to Major Tom…Ground Control to Major Tom…”

The music bleeds through the images in his head.

“Take your protein pill and put your helmet on…”

“Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven.”

“Commencing countdown, engines on [Six, Five, Four,]…Check ignition [Three] and may God’s love [Two] be with you [One, Liftoff]…”

His breathing evens out.

“You’ve really made the grade…”

“I’m stepping through the door and I’m floating in a most peculiar way…And the stars look very different today.”

 

_Hell_. Steve fumbles around in his utility belt, pulling out his phone still blaring the lyrics to David Bowie’s _Space Oddity_ and answers with a rough voice. Since he could barely work the darn thing, he couldn’t change the tone to something more generic (he already knows how). At least he’s always know who was at the other end of the horn.

“Tony? You okay?”

“Me? Okay? Seriously, Steve. When you’re kicking ass and taking names, you should really answer the phone by saying, ‘I just saved the world, I’m going to eat a truck load, and then I’m crashing.’ I mean, you should make that your default after a three-day binge fight. _Anyone_ would understand.”

The voice in his ear warms him and Steve doesn’t bother to move, “four days, whatever, and a truck load is a lotta food, Tony. I mean, I’m a hungry guy, but even that’s beyond me.”

“I even avoided cursing for your delicate sensibilities. Wasn’t that nice of me?”

“Absolutely. Glad you didn’t strain anything. Really, just so gosh darned relieved, Tony.”

Stark laughs over the line, always glad to have another wise ass in the conversation.

“And, you know, it helps that you broke into our comm systems, _again_ , and ‘helped’ out _again_.” He moves just his fingers to do the whole Tony Stark air quotes thing. Just doing it makes him smile. “I appreciate it, though. You know I do.” The new guys running the show behind the scene didn’t like it, thought Steve _tolerated_ it, but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt the team.

Tony huffs over the line, “Someone’s got to watch your back, you know.”

“Oh? That big box with the new suit wasn’t someone’s attempt at it, huh?” The new suit he’s wearing at the moment.

“I plead the fifth, no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-hu, sure you don’t.”

“Hm, big box. Did it say, ‘Special delivery from Stark Industries’?”

“Nope,” Steve pops out the ‘p’ but they’ve had this out before. “Doesn’t mean you can go out and just get a plain old _box_ , Tony. C’mon, I’m not _that_ out of time.”

The two share a laugh over that and no more on the ‘suddenly appearing tech for the Avengers’ is said.

“Anyone hurt?” Tony asks abruptly, like he fears the answer.

“Bruised, battered, Clint took a few nasty hits before anyone could get to him” (Tony used to but no way Steve is going to point that out; the damn fella deserved his time. When he was ready, he’d come back to them), “he’s going to be in Medical for a week or so. Bruce will probably sleep for a few days because, wow, I’ve never seen the Other Guy go that long. Well, other than that, we were lucky.”

Tony hums, seemingly inhaling the information.

“And you, Mr. Stark?” Steve doesn’t realize his voice gets suddenly softer, “how are you holding up with all the SI and SSARAS demands? Please tell me you’ve eaten and slept in the last sixty hours.”

“Of course I have,” he lies easily (Steve can already tell), “Pepper tackled me after the board meeting yesterday and we went to that Chinese place in 73rd.”

_Sure she did, wasn’t thawed outta the ice yesterday, Tony_. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, welllllp. Glad you’re all okay. I’m going back to work—“

“It’s two a.m., Tony. Try to get some sleep.”

“Laugh riot, you are. Such a cute _fella_.”

“Aw, don’t be an ass.”

“I’m a Stark, Steve. Being an ass is in the genetics.”

“That I believe. Tony?”

“Hm?”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Always. You do the same, Cap. Bye”

“Bye, Tony.”

Staring at his phone for a few minutes after the conversation, Steve sighs and fights against the empty feeling in his chest. The resounding white walls, too bright light, and lack of warmth just makes it all the more hollow. _I miss my room…_

_“I know this is going to be…weird but I hope it’s not like ‘hey, can I have a lock of your hair for my creepy collection of Cap memorabilia weird’ or anything.”_

_Damn. The man is **still** talking. He does nothing but **talk**. It’s all he is, a big bluster of air that never stops. Steve wants to bang his head into the elevator wall just to get the guy to **shut up** for more than thirty seconds. He just blows out a long-suffering sigh and gets a rein in on his nerves. Something about Howard’s boy irks him. He’s not sure if it’s the bravado or the cockiness or the fact that he’s so comfortable in this century or what, but there’s very few people out there that Steve Rogers utterly can’t stand (and those range from bullies and bullies with dictator complexes). Tony Stark is the first one he’s met since he came out of the ice._

_When the elevator doors slide open and JARVIS announces the floor number, Steve is absurdly grateful. He’s already stepping out before he gets the gumption to look around and be…wowed._

_The floor is open, not contained or claustrophobic but has ample space for a guy like him to move around without worrying about hitting his shoulders on doorways or shins on low furniture. The kitchen opens up to a long bar with stools for sitting down to a meal, colors a muted blue that reminds him of standing beside him Ma while they were making dinner after her shift at the hospital. He’s already moved to run a hand over the gas range, one that isn’t brand spanking new like the one in the communal floor. The cabinets are a stained wood with wheat stalks carved intricately up the sides with the brass handles…_

_His chest hurts when he touches them._

_“Like I said,” Tony’s voice is softer, gentler. “I’m sorry if it’s…weird.”_

_Steve’s eyes are hot when he looks at the billionaire standing against the Formica counter top, arms crossed over where Steve knew the arc reactor was._

_“Is this stuff from my ma’s place?”_

_“No, no. Not exactly.” He pauses like he wants to say more and decides against it. “These are replicas, similar products but not the exact same. I was hoping you’d be comfortable with things you recognized, Cap. I mean, you haven’t been…out…very long. Didn’t want to overwhelm you with too much too fast. It’s not an easy thing you’re dealing with,” Tony gives a shrug and a half-smile.  Steve just stares at him for a few moments, a little raw._

_“However,”Stark reaches over to open one of the cabinet and pulls down a plate, handing it to him wordlessly. Steve’s breath catches, looking at the delicate filigree design in light green and gold…his hands tremble just slightly as he turns it over and there in gold is a delicate S.R. It’s the real thing, the one his father gave to her before they got married._

_“How,” he chokes out, “did you find this?”_

_“Have my ways,” he shrugs again and hesitates a beat before putting a hand on Steve’s forearm. “I’m sorry. I really am.”_

_Taking a breath, Steve shakes his head, “th-this means a lot, so much. You don’t know...” He finally looks up, looks Tony directly in the eye. “Thank-you, Tony. Just thank-you.”_

_And there, the real fella shines through with a genuine smile. He eases the plate from Steve’s hands and lays it gently back in the cabinet. “I’m glad there’s at least **something** I can do for you, Cap. My dad… I grew up with his stories about you and the Commandos, so I’m a fan, not going to lie. Got to meet you and still a fan. But, the circumstances, I hate it for you, Steve, I really do. So…I’ll do what I can to help you ease into it.”_

_They share a look that starts the beginnings of an agreement, a mutual respect and Steve Rogers begins to realize that underneath all that bluster is a guy just trying to do the right thing. **A fan, huh…?**_

_“Unfortunately, the rest of the place isn’t as old fashioned,” Tony gestures to the kitchen, “we’ve got to work you up into the modern world, so you have microwave, toaster, coffee maker, hell, a television.”_

_“I don’t know what some of that stuff is…?”_

_“No worries, we’ll make the hell out of toast and coffee until it’s all good.”_ _Over that, the two men shared a laugh_.

Steve closes his eyes before making himself get up to get a shower, wishing he could just go out on his balcony with his sketchbook for some peace and quiet. _I miss my room…_.

**

He hasn’t been back to his floor since they packed up and left for upstate, so he’s not sure if it’s even _his_ floor anymore. With all the repairs, he didn’t know if Tony hadn’t just had the whole darn thing re-done as a guest floor or made it just as generic as the compound, but well, if he did that was fine. A bunk was a bunk, right? (Secretly, he hoped he at least still had the same kitchen…). Well, with the loveable idiot passed out, finally, he, Nat, Bruce, and Rhoades all bid one another a good night and went to their respective floors, not sure if Stark was full of it when he said he had to do re-checks and all that or if he was just blustering to keep them from worrying about his hide.

“Your floor, Cap,” F.R.I.D.A.Y chirps as the elevator stops.

“Thanks, gal. You’ll let me know if he moves, right?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. I’m going to get a few hours and check up on him.”

“I would appreciate it, Captain.”

“After hours, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Of course, Steve.” The doors open with a gentle noise he’s familiar with and the lights automatically come on dim, just how he likes it at night.

Just like he did the first time he saw it, Steve’s breath catches. It’s part relief, part dis-belief.

His kitchen is the same, with the little tea towel on the handle of his fridge and his mug tree by the coffee maker (he’d finally put the old perculator away in the cabinet). The Formica countertops are the same, clean of crumbs and whatnot. He passes the kitchen on silent feet for a fella his size and pats the counter absently, going for his living room instead so he can eyeball the new addition up close.

Before, his walls were a slightly blue-grey shade with trimming and an American flag in mid-wave on the back wall as the only filler. Tony had claimed at the time he wanted Steve to pick out his own art work to hang on the walls since he would, of course, have the best eyes for it, but Steve really hadn’t. He’d thought about adding Monet or Dahli replicas that Jarvis pulled up on the video screen occasionally, but…

Steve sighs gently and stares down at the display case carefully out of the way of the main room, obviously a piece from the forties by the imperfect condition of the wood and glass. His uniform, the one they found him in, is folded neatly on the bottom shelf with the first shield he’d ever carried. Photographs of the Commandos, of him and Bucky before the serum, him and Ma on the steps outside their apartment, him as a skinny shit in Boot, him and Howard, him and Erskine, him and Peggy all the line one shelf with memories.  His old gloves clutching the pocket watch he gave Howard after the big rescue is there too, open and ticking with the inscription.

This piece of his history was utterly precious to him, and Steve sighs gently at Tony’s penchant for being the biggest ass in the room just by having the largest heart.

_Thor_

His shield brothers are kin. It is the way of the warrior; when one puts his life in the hands of those around him, perfect trust must be gained in order to live out the day. It is a lesson he and the Warriors Three (along with Lady Sif) had perfected over countless battles, and his life is safe in their hands as well as their lives sacred in his. Not because he is a god, because he is powerful, because he is the son of the All-Father, but because he is a warrior of worth. With his Midgard brothers (and sister), Thor is of the same mind. Their lives in his hand will not be taken lightly, even with their extraordinary abilities, he will stand by them with his last breath. They will not fall until he does.

After so long in Asgard, fighting to save the realms in the time of Ragnarök, Thor is more weary, more broken than he can ever remember. After the arduous battle, he finally returns to the Avengers once the All-Father bestowed power upon Loki as temporary advisor to the realms, to prepare him for rule. Thor, Thor was able to finally _go back_ and gave a nod to Heimdel before stepping on the Bi-Frost.

Curiously, he was immediately set down in the dense woods, looking at a strange compound that certainly was not the Tower. It took a few long moments before he recalled the Captain, Widow, and archer no longer abided therein with Tony—rather, they call this cold and uncompromising place home. And the doctor, he has no idea if the doctor has even returned. Silently, he berates himself for not checking in with Heimdel to make certain Bruce was in good health. He shook off his disappointment as Steve and Natasha came running full tilt to him, so happy to see him they both embraced him one after another. Strangely, he returned both, ignoring the way his arms trembled slightly. The utter joy they showed in seeing him alive warmed him as nothing had in what seemed like such a long time. He could not tell them he was now a broken man, a failure, but that would come out in time. They, too, would turn from his eventually.

Natasha’s fingers gently touched the marks on his cheek that had yet to heal, lines that marred the left side of his face, still raw and painful. For the snake’s venom was indeed a god-killer; for him to bare injuries speaks to his fortunate at still breathing.

“Been a bad run, big guy?”

His laughter was strained even to his ears, “that is one way to put it.”

The Captain’s hand on his shoulder was a welcome weight and they escorted him inside to their own communal area; with the smallest of smiles, he greeted Bruce and Clint with a grasp to the forearm. Wanda received a gentle hug (for he did not wish press her), and Sam insisted on getting what he called “a fist bump.” He partook of food and drink with the jovial gathering, of whom had apparently bonded through their battles, and enjoyed their company.  Yet…his eyes could not help but continually seek out Tony, his absence too obvious.

A plate pressed to his hand snaps him back to their congregation, for his mind had been wandering. He attempts to smile at the Captain but feels how strained and tight the expression pulls at him; of course, the Captain’s brow furrows in concern, but Thor simply begins to eat, bracing the plate on his legs so no one will notice how his hands shake now.

Stubbornly, the Captain sits right beside him with his own plate, pointedly staring at him until Thor looks up.

“We’ve got a bunk for you here, fella, stay for as long as you need. But, I’ve got Jane’s number on speed dial because Tony, you know, set it up for me before we left.” Ah, and the Captain falters slightly at the mention of their shield brother as well. “Do you want me to call her?”

_No. Not until I know I cannot taint her goodness…_ The thought almost makes him choke. “Not this night, Captain. For it is late where she is doing her ‘research,’ but on the morrow perhaps.”

The answer doesn’t appease him or any of the others (their expressions are wary for him he knows), but he’s just arrived back on Midgard, so they won’t press until a few days go by. He knows them well enough for that, at least (except for the Falcon and Wanda), and before he knows it, he is shown to his quarters with promises to break their fast together as a team. Captain and the Widow stand in the doorway while he looks over the unassuming chamber with tired eyes; it is nothing like his in Asgard, one maintained _for_ him with no input on his preferences, but rather is uselessly opulent. This room is utility, functionality only without warmth or color. It is not the dwelling he craves…

_“So, I don’t really have the data to assume what kind of hobbies gods have, you know? So, don’t judge. I did the best I could do.” Stark jokes at him as they ride up the elevator. Thor, a very different Thor, laughs in genuine mirth at the antics of this funny little man._

_“I am certain it will fine as long as it has a place to rest myself, son of Stark. You needn’t go above the borne for the likes of me.”_

_Tony just gapes at him, “are you kidding? Seriously, Macbeth, going above and beyond is what I **live** for.”_

_Thor just laughs again._

_The elevator doors slide open and the view is extraordinary. Thor’s breath catches as he steps forward, eyes moving over everything, standing in the same spot while Tony moves further into the open room.  Like the other floors, the kitchen has a long bar for eating and opens up into the living space. Comfortable couches in browns and golds line the front of the large device that displays such clear images from afar. Jane called it an ‘idiot box’ though how a simple box could be an idiot is beyond his ken. This one, however, takes up most of the wall._

_But the walls, Tony has crafted such amazing decorations in the way of stories…not even hearing the mechanic, Thor moves silently to the painting on the wall, one hand outstretched to touch the face of his mother. Here, she is beaming in old script, cradling the flowers and chalice of marriage; she is smiling beatifically. Around her portrait upon the wall, there are numerous other murals of his friends, family, battles, and deeds, all of it interweaved in an incredible scroll that tell so much of his story. Each scene is vivid in color and style; Thor wonders briefly if Tony asked the Captain to assist in the sketching since the style does look somewhat familiar._

_“I hoped,” Tony begins gently, “this would be okay.”_

_Swallowing, Thor nods, “I am humbled by you, Tony Stark.” He turns to the other man with something vulnerable in his eyes._

_The half smirk is not so mocking, but genuine affection shines in his eyes, “I’ve gotten kind of partial to you too, big guy. So, let me show you what stuff does and then you can give me a title, right?  You’re a monarch, you can make me Sir Tony Stark the Awesome. Yeah, I’d rock that out, might paint a suit like old school armor.” He keeps on this vein as they move to the kitchen so Tony can explain these “appliances” and what they do, how to work them. Thor is very uncertain of the coffee making device, but Tony assures him JARVIS can give simple instructions. Of course, Jane would also know how to make the infernal thing give her beverages. With a hopeless sigh, Thor just watches the movements of Tony’s hands without hope of working the infernal thing…_

In the cold chamber with bare walls, Thor lies awake on top the covers. His chest rises with a deep sigh, _Verily, I miss my own room…_

***

And so, after his first fight following his return to the Avengers, they have come again to this _New York_ to inhabit the Tower and away from this depressing compound in the forest. While he is absurdly satisfied that the others are pleased, he has yet to even call Jane and the prospect of being… _contained_ … within the loud and boisterous city is withering; it makes his shoulders and chest tighten which, in turn, strains his still-tender injuries. Along with the Bruce and Wanda, he arrives as the Quinjet lands, so very happy to see Tony standing on the roof, waiting for them. With a wave of his hand, he sends Tony with Wanda to see her floor while he rides the other elevator to his own.

Leaning heavily against the wall, he feels as though he is a completely different man than the one that last graced these halls; he feels unworthy, even with Mjölnir a familiar weight in his hand insinuating otherwise. However, the elevator doors slide open to the space Tony created for him, and he simply tries to keep breathing steadily while his eyes take in the floor as though a man starved of something dire.

He steps cautiously, gingerly placing the hammer on the counter and just wanders aimlessly through the main room like a ghost. His fingers trail over a chair, the couch, the murals on the wall, grasping desperately at the memories of happiness here.  It makes him ache for what he has lost, every mural depicting something beloved he can no longer reach. In the bedroom, his Midgard clothing is still within the large wardrobe and drawers. He’s touching the soft material of the ‘sweat pants’ the Captain favors on his morning run when he glances up into the looking glass and starts.

He is indeed a changed man. He is pale and thin, his eyes dull from the last time he had bothered staring at himself in the glass. Even though he had won in a battle the fates themselves designed would be his end, Thor finds himself strangely wishing…

“Mr. Thor?”

Ah, it is not JARVIS but a female. “I am here…I do not know what you are called, my lady.”

“I’m F.R.I.D.A.Y, Mr. Thor,” the female voice informs him cheerfully.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, F.R.I.D.A.Y” but his voice is almost gone, just a whisper, “what is it that I may do for you?”

“Just wanted you to know that you’ve got company coming, Mr. Thor. In about two minutes. Please let me know immediately if you need anything at all.”

He hums in the positive, eyes back down to the things in these drawers that seemingly belong to another God of Thunder, one that would never give in, one that would fight until his death for the good of his people, one that would not be so broken. He sighs, both hands braced on the dresser’s surface so he can collect himself for whomever deemed to visit.  Probably Tony to see if he is settling in, which he would do himself as that is his ken.

Quickly, Thor sheds his armor for the comfort of sweat pants and t-shirts. He does not look in the mirror again when he leaves the room, barefoot upon the gentle carpet, forcing himself to push away the feelings of vulnerability. He fights with his instincts to remain armed, protected in case, _in case_ …

He is just coming out of the hallway when the elevator swishes open, and his breath catches.  Jane and Tony are talking when the door opens, and his precious light is there for him. Seeing her, alive and well, and so very beautiful makes his knees go weak. After so much horror, death, blood, and agony, here she is to save his life yet again…

“Thor!” Her voice is worried and she _runs_ across the room to him but he’s…kneeling? When…?

Her arms about him, her scent, her warmth. Her fingers tremble, gently touching the marks upon his visage, eyes questioning what things have befallen him, but he cannot voice the words. Not yet, not with so much weighing him. He only rests his forehead upon her shoulder, his arms tightening to press her against him. With all his loss, this, _this_ , is still something he can cling to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, which is your favorite Room story? Lol, mine is Steve’s just because Tony’s ringtone is Space Oddity. Tumblr and I are working out our issues, so if anyone can suggest a good prompt page or have any prompts you’d like to see in these little snippets, please let me know ;) Until next time.


	5. Spying

Just like Steve, he’d never escape being “the Soldier;” too many years stuck on an endless loop—from the time he chose that designation himself to the moment Hydra chose it for him. A year back to himself, _remembering more than snatches of his life **before**_ , six months of living in the Tower with the others and he’s finally all right with that. It’s a fella’s prerogative, to embrace his strengths. Jim Barnes, previous designation as the Winter Soldier, gave himself up to Steven Grant Rogers two blocks away from the Avenger’s/Stark Tower.  At the time, he’d been off ice longer than he had in years and the memories kept coming back to war with the programming, and he could actually remember _who_ and _what_ **James** had been before the serum overdose and extreme form of electro-shock therapy.

Later, Banner and that guy, the telepath Professor, would tell him Hydra’s jacked version of the serum had kept regenerating his brain cells, so they would either have to keep him in stasis or burn the memories away every few days. Not much could happen in between, so the ice after a target was capped, a mission complete and the wipe after every one.

They hadn’t figured saving Steve from the Potomac River would be the beginning of his mind shifting, of the old Jim finally fighting back. _For Steve, to make sure that punk didn’t get his ass killed…_

After pulling that Star Spangled fool (seriously, who just waits for his ass to get kicked?  It wasn’t the Steve he remembered, but he’d given his best friend holy hell for it much later) out of the river, the Soldier had gone back, had sat in the sonofabitchin chair again while they tried frying what was left of his personality out.  This time, though, this time, they couldn’t. Something in seeing Steve’s face beat to shit made something in the programming crack, the code became faulty and let the old Jim, the guy Steve called “Bucky,” come to the fore.

_He was hurt, hurt bad, like when he was a little guy. I’d never let him get hurt that bad— **mission, destroy.** Fuck no, not Stevie._

It hadn’t even been that much of a revelation, really.  One minute he was standing out of the chair, the scientists getting ready to put him back on ice, and the next minute, he was crushing throats, picking up his knives and guns from the side table where he had originally disarmed.  He’d dressed and armed himself in the Winter Soldier gear, even the mask, with his mind half in the present and half in the past. He’d just started moving out of the room once the alarms went off, two Glock .45s with extra clips in hand, two semi-autos strapped across his back, knives hidden all over, and four more side arms in holsters under his arms and strapped around his waist. He’d known the purpose before stepping out of that room was to leave no one alive.  That fucking chair was gonna burn and anyone that put him in it was gonna burn, too.

The “safe word” they’d programmed into him hadn’t even been enough to pull in his reins. He’d gone through every floor and taken out anyone that came across his path, picking up fresh weapons from the bodies as he went.  No prisoners around, so that was, in itself, a small blessing. He wasn’t sure if he could have gotten anyone else out of that compound in his state; he might have just killed them to make his own escape easier.

By the time he was done, Jim/the Soldier, stood in the Command Center of the site, downloading everything he could, using a dead man’s thumb print to gain access. He set charges all over and got the hell out.

From there, he gets sketchy for a while. At war with the program, fighting back with images of Steve facing him down, Steve in the war, Steve coming to get him from Hydra the first time he’d been taken, of fighting the good fight had been things he’d used again the Winter Soldier interface. He’d broken into a Goodwill somewhere and stolen clothes (long sleeves and gloves to cover up the arm), moving like a hobo through cities if he had to be in them. He’d assured himself Steve had survived by the news coverage of the killer sentient robot, watching his best friend throw that damn shield with more strength than he had against the Nazis. In those moments of footage, Steve looked older, than the fresh-faced twenty-one year old he’d started out as when he broke down the door to pull Jim’s ass out of the fire.

_They took me from you_ …

He started with his crazy as fuck vengeance trip. He went back to Hydra and burned as many installations to the fucking ground, razing death and destruction against them as their precious weapon. He slaughtered, gathered all the intel he could, and sent signals to the United Nations, the CIA, the FBI, Interpol, whoever the fuck would come here and do more damage.

**_New mission specifications: Locate all Hydra posts, gather intel, destroy. Salvage other Assets if possible._ **

Unfortunately, his one-man crusade eventually became an exercise in futility; once word got out of the Winter Soldier’s defection, Hydra itself began deserting their known outposts to set up shop elsewhere. He ran out of places to burn.

So, it was time… it was time.

First, he’d made his way back to the U.S. on an older freighter and managed to get through port authority and made his way to DC.  Of course, he wasn’t sure how bad things were after the fall of SHIELD (he could image it was bad but didn’t have any details until hitting the nation’s capital), but Steve would have to be somewhere close, right? There would have to be a re-build effort.

What he learned in DC was disturbing; most SHIELD agents were under close scrutiny and the organization Howard and Peggy started was run through the ringer, its’ name all but trash. But the Avengers, under the Stark Industries’ banner, were still around and kicking, located in upstate New York, and that’s where he headed after only a few days on the streets of DC.  It made him too antsy to be there anyhow, too many people that could recognize an internationally wanted criminal, and Jim had no intention of giving himself up to anyone other than Steve Rogers.  If the Cap wanted to turn him over the fuzz, then he’d deal with it and pay his due for all the wrongs he’d done. Hell, Stark might force the issue since he…Howard and Maria… _fuck, wouldn’t blame the fella_.

Well, he’d sniffed his way to this god-forsaken piece of land in _the middle of fucking nowhere_ and guess what? No Steve.

He’d climbed up the tallest, leafiest tree he could find to scope out the compound, trying to catch a glimpse of blonde and broad, stars and stripes, or hell, just the shield. _Something_ to tell him Steve was here.

Turns out, another guy sniffed him out first.

As the Winter Soldier, he’d seen a lot, killed a lot of different type of people: humans, mutants, super or meta-humans, whatever, so it really shouldn’t have got him by surprise that a guy could hover hundreds of feet in the air, cape flapping in a non-existent breeze. Nope. Shouldn’t have shaken him at all, but Jim could feel his hands tightening on one of the .45s anyway.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Vision greeted without reservation.  “I apologize, but Captain Rogers is not presently within the compound.”

_Shit, this guy knew what he was after_.

Before he could even say anything, the guy continued on.

“I am called the Vision, and while I am able to disclose the Captain’s current location, I will not do so until I am satisfied you mean him no further harm.”

Jim blinked at Vision owlishly then pointedly at the ground below.

“Sergeant Barnes?  Are you aware that is, in fact, your name?”

“…yes? Some of the memories,” his voice is hoarse, torn from lack of use. “I am—was—Steve’s best friend. Known that punk most o’ my life.” He breathes, “I’m Jim, Jim Barnes. You can call me Jim or…well, the Soldier I guess. But, you already know who I am, so how long til the coppers get here?”

Had it really been so long since he’d spoken to another person? Well, he’d only spoken to Hydra agents in an attempt to get information on more bases, more sleeper agents, more plans for world domination, and more explanation on what they’d done to him: what words or phrases or pictures or what the hell ever would set him off to hurt people. He wanted _all_ the files, _all_ the information they could give him. He had too many flash drives as it was.

But this, this was so different…

“Jim?” Vision’s accented tone was gentle but firm, interrupting his mental ramble. Still, he remembered that nice fella in Britain back during the war, guy had snuck him and Steve a four bottles of dark beer before they were on their way to France for the next attack...

“Yeah, buddy. I’m here with ‘ya. Sometimes-…” _I get lost remembering the before and the during_.

“Have you eaten? When was the last time you ingested sustenance?”

Jim blanks out completely, “I’m not sure.” His grip on the tree trunk tightens, the metal hand slowly easing away from the .45. “But, I don’t really need to. Eat much. Super solider and all that jazz.”

“False,” Vision counters, seeing more than just a former assassin in front of him, “the super soldier serum requires your body to intake more calories in the attempt to maintain functionality with your high metabolism. The Captain’s genetic make-up is similar in nature.” Still floating with ease, Vision ponders the situation. “I will propose a compromise with you, Sergeant Barnes,” looking at the obviously overwrought, exhausted soldier, Vision calculated the probabilities. “If you will wait here, I shall bring you provisions. Once you have eaten sufficient amounts to maintain your functionality, I will tell you precisely where Captain Rogers is located. I believe this to be fair.”

Jim just blinks at the guy, “Why—I don’t get it.”

Patiently, Vision flows just a foot closer, so the soldier can see his face more clearly, “Captain Rogers leads this team, Sergeant. He is my superior in rank and his life, like the lives of humanity, are worth preservation. However, based on this conversation as well as your heart rate, blood pressure, and other vitals, I can conclude you are not currently under the influence of the Winter Soldier programming. I am also assuming you are not sent by Hydra considering multiple installations have been suddenly destroyed from the inside out.” His look was knowing and if he’d had an eyebrow, it would have been raised. “As I’m sure you understand, these statistics lower your threat level, and therefore, should you hope to make it to the Captain, you will _need_ sustenance.”

Jim just blinks again.

“Now. I shall bring you potatoes, beans, pork chops, and fruit, or would you prefer something closer to rations? Liquid vitamins? Have you adapted to solid foods?”

“That—I like a good chop,” and the memory smacks into him, _his mother picking up chops for their normal Sunday dinners, Steve and his Ma would come over with potatoes and corn on the cob._

“Then you shall stay here until I return? I shan’t take long.”

Jim just nods silently.

“Very well. I will be back soon, Sergeant. Alone.”

So, not an order, but he waits anyway, senses of the sniper watching, waiting—even without _his_ old service rifle or whatever plastic, synthetic, light-weight POS Hydra hooked him up with every time he was brought off ice.  He still had the mind of that guy more than 70 years ago, picking out the difference between shadows and light versus animals or the subtle movement of the woods caused by the breeze rather than moving soldiers. The fingers of his mental hand fiddle with the hilt of the .45.

As promised, Vision returns through the trees, staying in Jim’s sight so he can be assured the life form is alone; he is carrying a big piece of Tupperware, oddly enough. During his quest in the cafeteria to retrieve leftovers from the night meal, he had not alerted anyone to his presence and even looped the security camera footage so no one would know he was in the large refrigerator but would rather see an empty kitchen. During his initial scan of the footage outside the compound, he was fortunate he picked out the shape of Sergeant Barnes before Security did (and he only due to the subtle shift in shadows). It gave him the opportunity needed to set up a continuous loop of empty forest while he assessed the situation at hand. It was necessary for his to deduce whether or not he would be dealing with the Winter Soldier or James Barnes before deciding on SHIELD’s involvement.

As a budding life form, Vision’s newest goal is to create, within himself, the boundaries defining _right_ and _wrong_. His understanding of such things needed to be more concrete, more applicable to his daily use.  It was paramount to develop what Wanda deemed as ‘instincts’ of such things that would aid him in his choice to remain with the Avengers Initiative as a full member. His time in battle would be fought with split-second decision that could be the deciding factor in lives being lost. Thus the development of intuition begins here, aiding a man that had been through seventy years of torture and is obviously trying to get some of his life back.

Jim, a little suspicious, hesitated noticeably before he took the lid off the huge damn container and was hit with full force of five thick, breaded, fried chops, a mound of mashed potatoes, beans, and corn with some rolls on the side. His stomach rolled with hunger, just all of a sudden, but he sniffed at the fare before picking up the fork to lift some potatoes to his mouth. Hm, not bad for government food.

“While you intake necessary calories, shall I recount the events following your last meeting with Captain Rogers?”

The metal hand pulled a knife from his belt to cut into the first chop, “how-how long was he in the hospital after I pulled him from the river?”

“Approximately four days. He signed himself out Against Medical Advice and returned to the Avenger’s Tower.”

The Soldier paused, blinked, remembered Steve leaving the installation in Stalingrad with doctors trailing him every step of the way. He takes in another bite, “How…how bad was it?”

Vision clearly hesitates, wondering if the information will affect the Soldier’s calm, “the Captain was assessed with four broken ribs, multiple contusions, three broken fingers, a bout of internal bleeding, a sprained knees, and I’m certain a punctured lung.” Vision carefully observed Jim’s empty face, “currently, however, he is in the peak of health and training the new Avengers.”

Jim clears his throat a little, shoving a piece of chop in his mouth, his taste buds automatically telling him how _not_ his mother’s they were. “Glad…glad he’s okay. What happened after SHIELD fell?”

“A great deal. The entire organization came under extreme scrutiny as did all surviving agents, including members of the Avenger’s Initiative. Even the World Security Council went through a blackout period of sorts. Mr. Stark, however, advocated for the need of an organization of SHIELD’s caliber to handle what is beyond normal _human_ affairs. He was quite successful after showing footage of the Chitauri Invasion. The United States’ Senate and Congress voted in his favor along with support from the United Nations, Mr. Stark began the Security Analysis and Response Action Service as a separate entity from Stark Industries. It is not precisely SHIELD, but Mr. Stark, Maria Hill, and several others have overseen its’ construction and monitoring system to track world threats and contain them.

Jim pauses, inhales this data, _Howard’s son would, of course, save those good agents. Has to be his nature_. “Good chops.”

“Thank-you, Jim. I am satisfied they are pleasing to you.”

“Yup. Go on. So. Stark’s the guy in charge?”

“At the current time, Mr. Stark is the Director of Operations and Management while his CEO maintains the main body of Stark Industries.”

“So…after he did the whole killer robot guy, the world just let him create his own task force?”

“Not in so many words, but Mr. Stark is quite resourceful, and he presented a rather compelling argument. Mr. Stark presented the technology he would use for monitoring as well as the extensive psychological and background checks he would complete before hiring any former agents. I believe he was concerned for the majority of innocent agents.”

“Hm. Least he’s using his retirement well.”

Even in the dark, Jim can see Vision’s face twist in a confusing expression, “Si—Mr. Stark has recently taken up the Iron Man armor again. Currently, he has sustained damage enough to be out of commission, but I do not doubt he will join the Avengers once Captain Rogers believes the injuries to be sufficiently healed.”

“So…the Avengers…?”

“Are back in New York City. Their current residence is in the Avenger’s Tower. That is where you may find the Captain.” Vision holds out a hand expectantly, and Jim realizes he’s inhaled the mound of food. Damn, he must have been hungry.

He nods woodenly, handing the plastic back as his mind processes. If he goes to New York City now, he’s got no guarantee the new SHIELD won’t get to him first, lock him away before he can see Steve. But, he’s done all he can in regards to taking out Hydra, especially with his arm in the shape it’s in—a random malfunctioning mess that causes streaks of agony to go through him occasionally. So, he can keep moving, vanishing in hopes no one sniffs him out, or take his chances back home in the Apple.

“If I may, Jim,” Vision interjects, “I have retrieved the data needed as well as the items Wanda requested. If you wish, you may accompany me to the Tower.”

The soldier quirks a grin, his face stretching in ways it hadn’t in a long time. “Believe me, I appreciate the sentiment, but if I’m going to do, I need to do it on my own terms.”

Vision nodes sagely, the probabilities of James Barnes showing up increase twenty-five percent.  “Of course. Would…you like me to inform Captain Rogers that you are in relatively good condition?” Vision’s eyes rake over him again, as if gathering data.

“If you tell him you saw me, he’s gonna go ape-shit and then he’ll start trying to track me again.  I _know_ that fella. He’ll probably get Stark to help him out, so no. Thanks, but it’s okay.”

Vision inclines his head in a nod and pulls a card out of the pocket in his cape, “very well. This card has the number of the Avenger’s general line. Call it if you are in need. You pay press the number five and I will receive any message.”

Jim does take the card, looking at it to memorize the number but still tucks the card in a pocket on his belt. “Thanks for that, buddy. Well, thanks for everything really.”

“You are welcome. Just…do not make me regret this decision, Sergeant. I should like my teammates to retain health and safety.”

Jim gives a strained chuckle, “I getcha. I getcha.” With a wave of his flesh hand, he starts the fast climb down.

_New York City, huh? Maybe it is time to go home._

Four days later sees him in their old haunt. Brooklyn is a whole different world.  Some memories from past missions crowd along his perspective from his childhood, overlaying the past and present in his mind. He takes his time, dressed in his hobo wear, to walk down the streets and just take in being lost in a crowd. Sometimes he fights the programming, tries to figure out triggers, but all in all, he’s just among the crowd.

Finally, he starts scoping out near the Avenger’s Towers, waiting in an alleyway a few blocks down. As he could have predicted, at five-thirty in the morning, the tall, powerful build of Steve Rogers comes barreling down the sidewalk on his morning run.  Jim makes certain he’s buried far enough back that Steve won’t notice him and watches until the other man is long gone down the block.  Jim’s heart has sped up once he saw his former best friend

And that’s what he did, watched for Steve every morning, and went to a shelter once and a while for a hot shower and some dredges of food, nothing special. He was waiting on his mind to get it right, to give him more of what he needed, (more accurate data). So he watched, he waited, he remembered.


	6. Drabble: Quiet

Not often is the communal floor _quiet_. With a god, two spies, super soldier, loud-mouthed billionaire, sentient life form, an altering reality witch, a former paratrooper with his own wings, and the occasional pilot of the patriotic suit. The gathering is more numerous than the last time, he thinks as he accepts a warm drink from the machine on the counter (one that Tony had to take extensive time teaching him how to use…after he broke the last three or possibly four) and lays his weary body along one of the comfortable couches without bothering to turn on the huge device before him. He has no need for its’ incessant noise at the moment, choosing instead to lay himself out with head on the arm of the couch and sip at his beverage. It had been such a long journey that these moments are indeed welcome.

The move back to this, the Stark Tower, has only been a few weeks (he has only been here for mere days), but the dynamic of the team living together once again, with new members, has already settled into a comfortable enough arrangement. The last time around, prior to the killer robot, the original members were able to convene as friends, comrades and worked out well in the domestic situation. He, of course, could not cook well, but surprisingly, many of the others could and, in fact, enjoyed to do so. He leans an arm out to set the glass on the end table and let himself relax into the cushions. It seems as though a lifetime has passed since he has been able to just settle like this, to absorb this quiet.

“He’s sleeping, don’t bother him,” from the kitchen from the kitchen some time later. He hears this from his hazy state.

“Yeah. Guy has been back and forth dealing with the aftermath of this Ragnarök. He needs the rest.” The smell of coffee tells him who is there had he not known from the voice.

“I wish…” the other sounds frustrated.

“Me too. We could have gone on the Bifrost, no matter what he says. The big guy with the epic hat would have let us in to help with that snake thing.  But…he’s like the rest of us in a lot of ways, like we’ve all got our own demons to dance with.”

“Like you and the Mandarin?” Is snarked back.

“Yup. Wouldn’t have dragged any of you into that. No way.”

Sigh, “we’re a _team_ —“

“When we need to be, sure we are. But, we’re also _people_ , and _people_ need privacy sometimes. People have their own problems, like, gee, big guys with huge missile launchers. Don’t we all have our crosses to bear?”

“Nat and Sam were with me.”

“While you were running for your life and taking down SHIELD? Do tell how well that went _after_ your hospital stay.”

The liquid pours into a mug and he closes his eyes, just breathing, just sinking into the cushions… he doesn’t even feel a blanket cover him and gentle hands pull his sneakers off.  His armor isn’t poking him in places, he’s already forgotten he’s changed into easier garments to make sleep come easier. Even the small pains of his broken ribs or the lacerations on his face don’t pull to rouse him. The only explanation he will come up with later, is that he trusts himself to actually _sleep_ because he knows the others will watch his back.

_His dreams are filled with serpents and dragons, water and death. His father’s, his brother’s. They join the masses of bodies piled high… He reaches out to save them but his hands are useless, barely functioning. He cannot lift the hammer, for it has forsworn him. He is not worthy of the power, of the title, of the honor to protect his people… He is nothing._

_The Æsir convenes with the Fates, the water will run with souls. Jane’s face is horrified as the water turns red with life-blood and the light fades to blackness, shadows taking over the land. The Warrior’s Three are still at his back, but even they… their lifesblood darkens the ground.  Yggdrasil shudders and groans as_ [ _Jörmungandr_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C3%B6rmungandr) _sinks its’ wicked teeth in the trunk, black blood flowing from the wound. He only has nine steps after ripping its’ head cleanly off, the poison is already in his veins, burning its way through him. But Jane is there, Jane using her science to try and save him from his fate.  He is horrified she’s here, wants her to run, to get away before any taint is able to touch her again…his innocent Jane, his brave Jane, his life for her.  Jane, Jane who, in the next second, spits blood upon the ground as Fenrir clamps his massive jaws upon her.  Surtur laughs, appearing out of the dark. Thor screams…_

He screams. Comes up reaching for something, _someone_ , in the dark. There has been too much darkness; he chokes on the shadows, unable to take in a full lung of air. The snake is still coiled about his throat, trying to crush the life from him.

He finds himself pressed into the warmth of bodies, _alive, warm and alive_.

“Hey big guy, it’s okay.”

“Easy there. You’re with the Avengers on Earth, uh,” to the side, “what does he call Earth again?”

“Right guard or something. Who cares? Talk to him. Point Break, _Thor_ , you’re in the Avenger’s Tower, okay? We’re here with you.”

 _We’re here with you_.

“—Mid…Midgard.” He mumbles, hands grasping at Steve and Natasha while his forehead is lying on Tony’s shoulder. He can hear the steady hum of the power source alight in the mechanic’s chest, and that slight noise helps ground him. “This realm is Midgard. It is safe once again, it will not sink into the sea…” He breathes out slowly, barely realizing he has been gasping.

“Into the sea?” Clint asks.

“Ragnarök, we’ll go over the history lesson later,” Bruce inserts, and the doctor’s hand comes to lay on his back, make soothing circles. “Thor, you already did it. You saved the realms, **_you did it_**.”

But, his eyes are hot. _Balder._ He had indeed saved the realms, he had _survived_ when he should have perished with his family. He was—He tempted Fate and won, but for what price? Would the price ever be worth it…?

 _Of course._ The monarch in him said, the voice of his father. _It is our duty_ , _it is who we are that we must fight the most fearsome battles for the good of the mass._

A hand on the back of his neck is so strong, comforting. He knows it is Tony’s hand from the deep callouses on the pads of his fingers. Natasha holds his hands between hers, unknowingly rubbing his hand with hers. Steven has his other hand pressed over his chest so the Captain’s heart beat against his palm. Thor takes another slow breath.

“I—I…am sorry to—“ _subject you to my weakness_.

“Not a bother,” Tony interjects. “We could make some food and you could tell us about it if you feel up to it.”

“My fettucine doesn’t take long,” Bruce tempts.

The rusty sound is his laughter, but it’s a broken sound, choked off with the pain, the horror that has been trapped within him.  He doesn’t see them exchange a worried glance over his head. “You know, Bruce, how much of your noodle craft I ingest.”

 “Guess that answers that. Okay, I’m going to get started,” that hand makes one more pass on his back and the doctor is going toward the kitchen to get out the supplies he would need. Clint shifts and his hand takes up the space.

No one else moves even with Tony awkwardly straddling Thor’s legs, both arms around the guy, Clint perched on the arm of the couch behind him, Steve kneeling on the floor, and Natasha sitting on the back of the couch. They surrounded him in a circle of support, of warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quietly crying for the poor guy*


	7. Full-Time Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is getting anxious about the mother-hens

Coffee is just utterly the greatest convenience of our time. He holds the mug like it’s the arc of the covenant, first inhaling the aroma then taking the first of tiniest sips. Nothing is better first thing. Especially if you’re beat the shit and five people are riding your _ass_ to stay where you are, huddled on a couch, watching terrible B movies. Absolutely. Terrible. Sci-Fi. B-movies. Before today, he’d never heard of “This Island Earth,” and probably for an excellent reason; Clint, however, even knew the dialogue. Just how? How could he sit through it without his eyeballs bleeding?

“They’re like your Earth bugs, just larger with more capable intelligences, of course,” Clint follows the guy on the big screen and Tony wants to die a little inside for him. Who would have put him through such torture that he thought _this_ was _classic_?

Barton turns to look at the engineer over his shoulder, popcorn still in one hand, “refill yet?”

“Soon,” Tony promises, eyes still half-lidded. He sighs irritably, just wanting a few hours in his workshop, that’s it. A few hours. It’s not like anyone is going to miss him, right? Everyone is out _doing things_ like things people _do_ when they’re not saving the world and all that, so he could just leave Clint here and go down for just a few hours…

“I will _so_ tell Steve and Nat on you, Stark, don’t think I won’t.” Clint barely gives him a glance over his shoulder before shoving more popcorn in his mouth.

Calculating, Tony shoots him a side eye glance, “I have an idea.”

“Dude. You’re a genius, I’m sure this is not a new thing.”

“Smart ass. No, I have this epic idea for impact-expanding arrowheads.” Casually, Tony sips his coffee, but the observation works like magic.

The marksman perks without turning from the movie. “Impact-expanding? To do what exactly?”

“Weeell,” he draws out, hiding a grin behind his mug, “almost like a miniature shockwave, nothing to the effect of Thor’s strike, but it could _really_ come in handy in a long range or short range situation—“

Clint is already turning around, popcorn forgotten. “Better than the exploding arrows? I mean, the blast from them is great, but—“

“Those are okay, but the arrowhead is just too damn small to make it effective. Civilian safe(er) but not a huge help against the big baddies you’ve been going against. But,” Tony leans down a little, “think of this: an arrow head that could create a plasma wave once it hits the target, impact is the trigger, the wave is the expansion. Well, and there could be multiple levels of them depending on the situation. Small, medium, and large waves.”

“Three different types?” Clint’s eyes are _huge_.

“Yuuuup. I started the very basics, just rudimentary sketches of them. Dunno, had the idea one day that it would be cool to have a good distraction like that, but…I’m kind of stuck here.” He waves his coffee cup to encompass the couch, the blanket, and the communal floor. He gives a small shrug and a ‘sorry, I’m helpless’ smile.

Clint gets to his feet abruptly and whips out his phone, furiously texting while he strides to the kitchen. Emptying the dredges of his coffee, Tony just waits it out. Of course Clint has to text Natasha, who will text Sam, who will text Steve, etcetera, and etcetera. They’re like a bunch of gossiping teenagers, really. This isn’t why he gave them all Starkphones, really it isn’t. Once he gets back _to the damn workshop_ , he was going to have F.R.I.D.A.Y change all they’re themes, ringtones, notification, _all of it_ to something High School the Musical, or, God-forbid, Glee. That would show them.

The coffee pot appears right in front of his face and Tony jerks, put Clint just refills his mug while still staring at his phone and returns to the kitchen. He heaves a deep sigh and finally puts the phone down.

_Uh-oh_ , Tony just keeps staring at the terrible movie, actually not tracking on it.

“Sorry, Stark,” Clint flops back down, “Nat is…sending in reinforcements,” he give a wiry grin, “since I’m obviously ‘compromised’.” He picks up his popcorn and becomes engrossed in “This Island Earth” again while Tony mentally puzzles out who and what he was talking about.

Ten minutes later, the elevator opens. Director Coulson is, of course, flawless; his suit crisp and perfect. He doesn’t break his stride or put his phone down until he’s right on the edge of entertainment space; Clint is on his feet in an instant, standing in parade rest, hands clasped loosely behind his back and one cheek puffed obscenely with popcorn.

“Get it done,” Coulson ends the call and takes off his sunglasses, sliding them in the pocket of his suit jacket in a smooth move.

“Clint. Tony. Good to see you both.”

Clint relaxes and goes back to chewing, giving the Director a shit-eating grin.

“Director Agent,” Tony salutes him with the mug, “glad you could stop by! Pull up some couch and watch a terrible movie with us, or keep Clint company since I’ve got some things to finish up, you know—“

“How are your injuries?” Coulson interrupts smoothly.

“Uh, I’m—“

“’Fine’ is not an acceptable answer. While I am under your employ as the Director of Stark Security Analysis and Response Action Service, I am _still_ your supervisor under the Avenger’s Initiative.” And that’s the same ole, same ole agent.  Tony had missed him, well, except when he was getting schooled like a kid. “Meaning, you’re on the bench for two weeks, at least. Longer if you don’t go to Medical to be cleared as Active.”

Tony gapes at him, “ _two weeks,_ are you insane?!” _Fucking loopholes, I only agreed to those terms because—retirement and things._

“—or longer if you are unable to get some updated training with Captain Rogers before you fly with the Avengers.” Coulson smooths down his tie. “You’ve been out of the superhero game for almost a year, Tony. A mandatory three training sessions approved by Captain Rogers has to happen before I put you back on the roster.”

Tony gives him that exaggerated eye roll, “and what am I supposed to do if there’s a crazy international baddie that just wipes the floor with everyone and, gee, Science happens while Bruce is Hulking it out?”

“Get on comms,” Coulson counters smooth as silk, “and help the Captain direct with your own brand of know-how.”

_Well, shit_. “I can go out as Iron Man without—“ _needing my own company’s permission._

“Of course you can, Tony. You were Iron Man before the Avengers Initiative. Black Widow was a spy and assassin before. Hawkeye was the best marksman on current record. The Scarlet Witch was powerful before, and so on. There’s nothing holding you back from debuting as Iron Man except for a few sheets of paper.” Coulson is deliberately calm, just acting like _Agent_ that Tony clenches his jaw.

“The thing you need to consider is whether or not you want to work without a team, go the solo route again.” Coulson’s face is completely bland, like Tony’s decision won’t affect him either way. Clint is very carefully not looking at either, rather he is inching closer and closer to the kitchen.

“Ridiculous,” Tony stands just to get the point across, “there’s always going to be a baddie out there gunning for Iron Man, Phil. _It’s a thing_. Hammer? He’s always going to come for me, no matter what, and that’s not a world-destroying thing. So, I’m going to have my own solo things to take care of, just like Steve and Nat and Clint have their own missions. None of that means I don’t want to be a team player this time.”

“Then do what we’re asking,” Phil interjects, “get prepared. The next fight could be worse. The next fight could be the one that takes you out of the game, so asking you to be absolutely prepared is not unreasonable. I don’t have to remind you, being part of the Initiative is a full-time job. Right now, consider yourself on Workmen’s Comp.” His argument made, Phil gives a nod to Clint and turns on his heel to leave, ignoring the expression on Tony’s face.

Clint very carefully sits back down and picks up his popcorn. “Got a point, Stark. Not being an asshole but he isn’t wrong. Besides, you don’t even have a suit ready. What’s the rush?”

Tony leans back into the couch, mug warming his cold hands, “I—have no idea,” he replies mostly to himself. It’s not like he hasn’t been in on the majority of missions in the last few months anyway, hacking into their comm lines to monitor the situation and sending new tech once the old stuff gets broken or is inferior on the field. It isn’t like he’s been in the suit _helping_ , so why is it a big deal now?  Why is he so on edge…? The wondering makes him tired, and he just leans down to lay out on the couch and wrap the blankets further around himself.

Why indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could Science better since Tony is the bomb. I originally wanted them to be shock-wave arrows, but there’s not really a way to break the sound barrier with arrowheads :\ Makes me a sad panda but oh well. Aaaand, I REALLY NEED A BETA. Anyone interested?


	8. Is this a Kidnapping?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony is apparently too used to being kidnapped...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't judge. Just read ;)

“I really can’t believe they put me in—in time _out_ , I mean, what am I five? Hello? Iron Man?” Tony sighs and leans his head back against the office chair, irritated. The man in the red and black mask across from him just looks up from where he’s sharpening some _wicked_ katanna and tisks in sympathy.

“I understand it’s been _months_ and the first time I pilot the suit, it gets a little hairy. You know what? Those suits were _busted_ as hell, I didn’t even bother giving them a once over after everything so, that should be a mark on my side, you know? And even with those pieces of junk, I still got the portals closed and helped them hand Doom his ass. It’s a win-win. So why am I ‘out of commission’? Reasons, that’s all I get, reasons.” He sighs in irritation, hands trying to move with the epic tape job, but no go. His fingers were stuck.

The man holds up one blade, tests the edge just slightly before sliding it in the sheath at his back, “well, we’re just going to tell him our opinion, White, so calm down. The guy needs to ramble, vent it out, s’okay, he’s Tony Stark, so no big deal. It’s like Scientific word-vomit.” The man’s head is turned a bit to the side as he talks and Tony blinks at him.

_Great, a nut job kidnapped me while the team is out and I’m stuck. Fantastic_.

“Did you ever consider calling the Fantastic Four?” The man rests an elbow on his knee, laying his chin down in it. The other hand gestures while he talks. “I mean, why come out of retirement when there’s other _superhero groups_ , including the one’s that got Doom started in the first place, just meandering around New York? X-Men? The Four? Heck, even that guy with the spandex costume, the Spider guy? I’m sure you’ve got some of them on speed dial. Why leave the lap of luxury sipping mojitos when other ass kickers just _wait_ for a good fight?”

At that, Tony is at a loss. “Well, I—“

“HA!” The man yells, pointing a finger right at him, “because you _missed being Iron Man_. Totally the truth, don’t lie. You wanted back in the game and there was the opportunity,” with a flourish of hands, the masked man gives a nod. “We totally got him, Yellow. You know, I bet he was just missing Cap’s Star Spangled Ass, I mean, who wouldn’t? You could bounce a quarter off that thing from a hundred yards. Not like I checked or anything, but I totally could—“

So not wanting to go into that train of thought. Yeah, Steve’s ass was just…“Let’s say I did want back in the game,” Tony counters, obviously interrupting some inner derangement, his and the masked guy’s, “why didn’t I build a suit I could actually use? _I didn’t build anything_.”

The mask seems to take on a life of it’s own, one white eye arching like the brow under it is, “so the suit you used to _save the Avengers_ was just in a scrap pile you _happened_ to pull together all willy-nilly?”

“Well…no, it was in a case—I was going to scrap—it was only _half_ functioning at best—“

“So, Tony Stark went into a fight against Dr. Doom with a half-functioning suit?” Yeah, that sounded more lame when he said it again.

Tony sighs, “I meant it about the retirement thing this time. I actually _meant it_.”

The masked man just shrugs, “you probably did at the time, Mr. Stark—“

“Just—Tony, okay? I hate being called Mr. Stark by anyone but the press.”

The mask’s eyes widen, “I get to call you, _Tony_? I’m so fangirling right now, so totally fangirling. I want to ask what your favorite food is, tell you how cut that goatee is and how awesome your _hair_ looks and just—“

“I did mean it at the time, and I meant it when I put that damn suit back on for that fight. They were in _trouble_ , so I had to—I had to—“

“Save the day because you’re Iron Man. Voila, back to the main point.” Another flourish of the arms. “You got back in the game.”

“None of this explains why I’m benched now,” Tony snaps, deflecting so he doesn’t have to think about his inner motivations. “I’m good. That fight was like forever ago—“

“A week,” the masked man allows.

“A _week_ and here I’m still, ‘oh, you need to take some time and relax before you put the suit on again.’ Well, I wouldn’t be kidnapped right _now_ if I was with them on a mission!”

The mask twists, like the man underneath is confused. “Yeah, Yellow, he doesn’t know what’s up, but it’s okay, he’s a little stressed, right? Well, no, probably not because of stuff like that but hey, who are we to judge?”

“Who are you talking to?” Tony asks a little desperately.

The man taps the side of his temple, “White and Yellow. After effects of the Weapon X project gone terribly wrong,” he makes a super scary voice while waving both hands for effect, “but don’t worry, they’re both fangirls of the Avengers too, so no big.” The masked man shrugs a little, “but consider this. You’ve been just chilling, being Tony Stark CEO for how long?”

“About seven months or so.”

“And how bad did you come out of the last fight?”

“Not—not _that_ bad—“

“So, bad. And how long until a brand spanking new suit is done?”

Defensive now, Tony’s brows furrow, “it’s almost done!”

The masked man leans forward a little, “so, let’s recap: you’re still banged up from the last fight, you don’t have a fully functioning suit, you probably haven’t had any training time (and hey, need that, CEOs aren’t normally beating bad guy ass, so get back in the game), aaaaaannnnnndddddd, the whole team’s got like an obvious Mommy complex.” He’s ticking each item off his fingers, “and you’re wondering _why_ they’re not letting you out to play superhero?”

Tony just stares at him wondering who the hell this guy is. “They’re not that bad—“

The masked man holds up a thumb at himself, “fangirl, remember? One time Cap ripped the arm off your suit to treat your booboos, like right in the middle of a fight. And that time Widow ninja-strafed to knock Cap out cold to get him medical attention? And that time--.”

“…Okay, they are that bad.”

“Besides,” the masked man sits back again with his arms folded over his chest, “this isn’t a kidnapping, so it’s a good thing you _aren’t_ out with them or it would be. See? As much as they’re a pain in your ass, they’ve still got your back. I mean, look who they called in for reinforcements?” The mask winks at him, “not that I’m not _totally_ awesome and could k-word anyone that come through that door after you. Totally could. Totally would.”

Tony’s brain short circuits, “what? Wait, what? What do you mean this isn’t a kidnapping? I’m tied to a _chair_ here.”

“Yup,” the masked man agrees, “until they come here to get you, _then_ I’m going to go find AIM and take their heads off. See? Not a kidnapping.”

A muscle in his temple twitches, “start over. What the hell is going on here?”

“Well, I’m Deadpool, Merc with a Mouth? Ring any bells?” The mask moves with his raised brow. “No? Wow, I’m a little sad, but it’s okay, whatever. So, I take jobs, well _used_ to take job for money because, you know, money is for chimichangas and beer and bullets. But, see, I’ve been trying to go legit hero for a while, so when AIM called me about kidnapping-slash-k-wording-you, I told them I’d take the job. So _then_ , I could-but-almost-not _kidnap_ you so you’re out of the way, and then go un-alive as many of them as I can find. See? Win-Win.”

The masked man, Deadpool, leans forward a little to look at Tony’s suddenly pale face. “Yeah, White, he doesn’t look good. Maybe we shouldn’t have told him about the k-word part? Note to self, next time we leave that out. But, hey Tony, look. Already called Bird Guy and they’re on the way, so it’s cool. Once they get here, I’m going to leave you in their hands and take care of the problem.”

Tony blinks, “why? Why would you do that? Just because you’re going straight?”

Deadpool tilts his head, “well…It’s more complicated than just that. Sure, yeah, I’m going straight and this will be a step to get there, but, uh,” a hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck, “I gotta… _friend_ …that’s a real big fan, so once he hears about this, well, I dunno.” Deadpool mumble to himself, something low that Tony can’t hear.

He grins at the mercenary, not judging. If anyone knew how hard it was to be a superhero, it was Tony Stark and fuck, if the guy was trying to go down the straight and narrow, more power to him, “You’ve got a friend that’s an Iron Man fan, huh?”

“Naw, well, sure he is, but he’s a _Tony Stark_ , brilliant engineer fan. He’s a science guy. Cute but hella smart.” Deadpool is grinning wide now at Tony’s surprise (not many people are _fans_ of the mechanic side of him), “he’s got all your papers and articles, he’s studying to be a great Scientist someday, which I totally have faith he will be. He’s like, ‘Oh Em Gee, what the hell are you talking about?’ kind of smart.’”

“Is he studying at NYU?” Curiosity gets the better of him every time.

“Yup, Masters, well, like _two_ at one time. Like I said, he’s super smart,” Deadpool claims proudly. “He does something impressive, but I dunno about all that. Usually I’m too busy staring at his ass while he’s talking. Blah, Blah, Blah, _Science_ , Blah, Blah, Blah.”

Tony shakes his head, “I’m always looking for smart Grad Students, you know—“

“Holy shit, are you serious?! If you’re serious, I’ll tell Spi—uh, my _friend_ —“ he’s interrupted by a loud beeping. “Aw, shit. Time’s up.”

Deadpool pulls out a bright pink Hello Kitty cell phone from his utility belt and turns off the alarm. He moves over to Tony’s chair, already flipping out a wicked looking knife. Tony’s pulse kicks up a notch, but Deadpool turns the chair and starts cutting the tape away. “You won’t forget you said so, right?”

“I keep my promises. If he’s as smart as you say he is, Stark Industries could use him.” One wrist free, he wiggles the circulation back in his fingers.

“That is awesome-sauce. Seriously, you could be like, ‘dude, you know how many smart people I have working in one room right now?’” Deadpool claims after Tony is free; he slides the black back into its hidden spot and pulls a bottle of water out of the mini-fridge.  “I’ll get his CV, so don’t be surprised if there’s one on your desk in a few days.” The guy is radiating happiness and watching him move, Tony is absurdly grateful he’s on their side.

“Smart guys are fun in the lab,” Stark replies, “Like I said—“

Deadpool sticks up one finger, “hold that thought.” He moves to the door and grabs the knob, finger moving like he’s ticking down time.

Abruptly, Deadpool wrenches the door open just in time to avoid Steve putting full force into knocking it in. Captain America almost lands right on his face but manages to catch himself at the last second. Widow and Falcon, however, plow right into him and all three go sprawling to the carpet at Tony’s feet.

Sipping his water, he gives a little wave of one hand. “’Sup everyone?”

“Get. Off.”

“Geeze, Sam!”

“Why’s it gotta be _my_ fault?”

Widow hit the center button and the wings pop-out. Deadpool smoothly dodges the deadly metal, still gripping the doorknob while Falcon moves to get off Widow who moves to get off Cap.

In the doorway, Hawkeye bites his lip, bow still in hand. He eyes Deadpool, “you were supposed to make sure he was safe and sound. That was part of the deal.”

Incredulously, Deadpool’s eye widen, “I did! Look at him! Not a scratch, right?” He turns to Stark for validation.

Tony just holds up both hands, “not a scratch.”

Both Deadpools arms gesture in a ‘see?’ motion at Tony. Hawkeye just sighs, “all right, all right. Good job, man. Thanks. So, you wanted a set of Hulk Hands, right?”

The other three Avengers just stare while Deadpool gives a shake of his head, “nope. I want a _signed_ Cap T-shirt,” he points to the subject still standing with the shield in hand, “and Hulk Hands. This was totally worth both.”

“What? The deal was for a set of Hulk Hands.”

“Not my fault I actually _talked_ to the guy, and hey, I’m going to go take care of the little problem with some slicey and dicey, maybe some shooty shooty bang bang. Soooo that totally earns me a signed t-shirt. Un-aliving people is hard work, Bird Guy.”

“Geeze, seriously? All right, fine. I’ll get Cap to sign a shirt _and_ the set of Hulk Hands.”

Deadpool jumps up with fist pumping, “yes! He’s gonna be so jealous. Cap t-shirt, baby!”

Cap looks at Widow with an arched brow but she just pats him on the arm.

Tony arches a brow, “I’m pretty famous too, you know.”

Deadpool just waves a hand, “you signed an Iron Man mask for me at Comic Con last year.  Totally wore it for, like, _weeks_. Well, not when I was on a job, but you know, to the taco stand and the bank, well they kinda thought I was going to rob them but I _wasn’t_ and—anyway, it’s all good. So, I did the thing, now to go do the other thing.” He walks past the staring three Avengers with a wave over his shoulder and pauses in the doorway, glancing over at Tony still sitting in the office chair.

“Remember what we talked about, okay?”

Tony waves a hand, “yeah, yeah, about your scientist friend.”

“That and the stuff _before_. Keep it in mind when you’re dealing with these guys.” Deadpool’s eyes arch and then he’s out the door, whistling some tune.

Readjusting the shield, Cap just shakes his head, “no matter how long I’m in this time, there’s still always something…”

Hawkeye come to take Tony’s arm, “you okay? That guy didn’t give you a hard time, did he?”

“Like I said, not a scratch,” Stark stands, still carrying the bottle of water.

“I mean, he’s an all right guy now, but he’s still bat-shit crazy from whatever they did to make him a super-soldier. At the time I was kind of out of options.” Hawkeye just gives a half-shrug, “but he pals around with that one guy, Spider Man, so I don’t think he’s that bad anymore.”

Nat gives her best flat look, “he’s a mercenary, Barton.”

“We have no room to judge,” Clint reminded, “besides, who else with his kind of skill would take a job for a set of _Hulk Hands_? I mean, Target, twenty bucks and we’ve got an immortal on our side. That’s a pretty sweet deal for ‘oh hey, some asshats wants me to un-alive Tony Stark, and I don’t wanna’. He did the job, he needs to get paid.”

Nat holds up both hands in surrender, “agreed. Let’s see how much of AIM he can take down, then we’ll get him his damn shirt.”

Tony sighs, drawing their gazes to him, and his expression is decidedly Not. Happy _._

“Who was supposed to tell me I was in trouble?” His withering glare goes from Nat to Clint to Cap, “let’s send this guy, Mr. Used to Kill People for Money and Is Now Trying to be Better, without giving me at least a _heads up_?! I mean, _who even does that_?”

The three look satisfactorily guilty, even Nat, who never looks like anything other than the Queen of the Night.

“We were in the middle of a thing,” Clint tries, waving one hand, “and that guy was the only one I could—“

Tony points a finger, effectively shushing him, “next time? How about a text? Your phone has Voice Recognition for a reason.” With a shake of his head, Tony heads out of his office without them. He suddenly feels the need for a drink so he doesn’t get in a damn busted-up suit and go find AIM on his own.

**

“I believe in a thing called looooooove.”  Bluetooth is THE SHIT. He’s talking while in perpetual motion, flesh splits ripe and red.

 “Aw, a serenade? It isn’t even my birthday.” Amused, the guy on the other end is either getting ready to make dinner or starting to put on the skin-tight spandex. Wow, just the image of that ass.

 “Whaaaat? Sweetheart. Baby boy. You say the word and I will serenade the shit out of you, especially when we’re having naked fun times. I’ll have a whole playlist ready.” The mask is smiling at the thought; he drives the blade through a skull without even trying hard. The gun in his other hand explodes in rapid fire.

 “As long as it’s not that Lime in the Coconut song, well and about a dozen others I can think of right off the top of my head.”

 Wade hears the window open; that answers the ‘what is he doing?’ question.

 “You being careful?” He winces at the ridiculousness of it all but keeps moving through the installation.

 “Aw, you worried about me?”

 He scoffs, “of course I am, baby boy. Your hero complex doesn’t know stuff like, ‘ow, ow, ow, bullets really suck.’”

 The laughter that comes over the ear piece makes a consistent knot always in his chest ease down a bit; that’s what the other man does for him, _saves_ him. Over and over… While he’s scoping out the next hall of rooms, he lowers his voice, “I miss you, Pete.”

 “I miss you too, Wade.” And the sincerity there, it’s a little too much sometimes. “Do you know when you’ll be coming back?”

“Soon. I’m almost done here. Tin Guy will be all right until he gets another suit ready or something.”

 “You’re a good man, Wade. That’s why I—“

 “Don’t say it while I’m here doing this, Pete. Tell me when I’m home with you…When I’m there, tell me all the time, okay?” He pauses, blood dripping off him squelching under his boots.

 “Every. Day.” The other man whispers above the wind whistling over the line, “I will tell you every damn day, Wade. Just be careful and come back to me. Promise, okay?”

 “I promise, baby boy. I’ll always come back to you,” and from the depth of his heart, he means it.

**

A week later, his PA hands him a greasy manila envelope, his name and the address of the Tower written in what looks like crayon…?

Intrigued, Tony pulls out the small packet of stapled papers, eyes scanning the contents. The light bulb comes on as he scans the list of works, the previous job experience, the published papers…

“Hm. Parker. Have to check in on him. Something tells me the kid could help out Bruce with his biotech.” He sits the resume at the top of the stack of his IN box. He’d wait a few days and give the kid a call, see if there were any internships still available.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...don't know where this came from. Seriously, don't. Peter/Wade is one of my other OTPs, but this was just a guest star, I don't think they'll be prevalent.


	9. Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has to have at least one sparring session and two weeks to heal before he can officially be put back on the Avenger’s roster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched some YouTube videos on this stuff buuuuut not my best description, sorry :(

Getting his ass kicked is not his idea of fun times, but even Tony had to acquiesce to Coulson’s very pointed little spiel about the preparation for taking up the suit again. His usual mantra, _sometimes you’ve got to run before you can walk_ , is a familiar fallback. Bad things happen, get in the suit, do whatever is necessary to ensure safety and survival: easy. Eight months, though, since he used the suit like an extension of his body and mind. The last Doom fight might have come out all fine and good, even with beat-up pieces of crap, but Agent (no, _Director_ ) knew about all the shit that could have gone wrong with that mission—worse than a broken arc reactor. Well, that and he gave the mushy observations of _feelings_ and _togetherness_ that just made Tony Stark uncomfortable as hell.

So, to keep Director from coming around again, he’s standing in the gym with Spangles, Russian Barbie, and Hunger Games; he’s not in a suit (either kind) but in his usual workshop wear and barefoot. He stretches out the hammies while Happy wipes the sweat off with a towel behind him; the guy will always have a killer right hook, and Tony’s swelling cheek is just a reminder. Well, he got his own licks in since Happy is just a little bit slower and without the reach; Tony has the muscle mass without the bulk, he’s lanky and fast on his feet (since, you know, controlling a weaponized suit of armor and whatnot), constantly thinking three moves ahead. It’s what made his a dangerous opponent. Well, usually, unless he’s dealing with people that are accustomed to thinking _six_ moves ahead, then he’s in trouble.

And, that’s exactly what’s happening here. Steve fights by strategy and calculation; Natasha fights with brutal efficiency; Clint fights in triplicate, never stopping in mid-leap. Each of them have a strength that is Tony’s weakness and thus the reason Steve chose them to start out with them.

Before Ultron, Tony had only sparred sparingly with the Avengers, just citing ‘reasons.’ Well, those had been good at the time since he’d come awake with fists swinging more than once (he’d actually caught Pepper with full fist one time and never let himself forget it, how _easy_ he hurt the people he loved…) and the nightmares were at their peak back then. He’d been a different Tony Stark right after the Chitauri invasion, seeing infinite stars above him that gave him the itching need to fight _back_. Almost two years later, he had learned to expect the next great catastrophe with more calm aplomb. It made him okay to be standing here, ready to face the three of them without fear of hurting anyone.

Clint is still shaking his head in disbelief, “I can’t believe Phil actually got you to do this. Holy hell, I’m going to make him get you to buy me a PS-4.”

Tony gave him a patient look while working the kink out of his left shoulder, the bad one that had taken too many hits. “Bird Brain, seriously.” That’s all he needed to say. Since Sam Wilson had moved into the Tower with the rest of the Avengers, _every gaming system in existence_ was now on the communal floor. Tony even spotted an Atari 5200. Not even kidding.

“I mean _my own_ ,” Clint grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “He beat me at _Perfect Dark_ , do you know how embarrassing that is?”

“Do you know how _old_ that game is?”

“I don’t like _Golden Eye_ as much.”

“Not helping your case.”

“Whatever. You’re a game snob, Stark, that’s all there is to it.”

Tony actually drew back with one hand over his chest, “ _game snob_! Me? Dude, _Mario Cart_. That’s all I’m saying.”

With a raised brow, Clint snarks back, “yeah? Then play _Choose Your Own Adventure_ with us on the Kinect next time.”

“If I want to jump around and pop bubbles all day, I’ll go in the simulator,” Tony waves a dismissing hand.

“That’s not the point! Me and Sam always get beat by Bruce and Wanda, it’s totally cramping my style.”

“Of all people, _Bruce and Wanda_?”

“All right you two,” Steve reins them in while Nat just watches curiously, arms loose at her sides and deceptively calm. “You banter like an old married couple, but we’re here for an assessment.” With a gesture, Steve clearly hesitates, “you sure about this? I mean that injury can’t possibly be—“

“I’m totally fine to start,” Tony counters. “Boxing didn’t do anything, so we’re good.”

“Okay, then. You’ll call it if we’re not good, though, right?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Funny, didn’t know you had one, Stark.” But Steve is grinning when he says it. He rolls completely over Tony’s crushed look, “Okay, we’ll work it up in steps. Clint will start out with you on the hand to hand, Natasha will pick-up, and I’ll finish the round off. Everyone on board?”

Moving to the mats, Tony cracks his knuckles one more time before shaking himself loose. He was hoping Nat would go first since he and Clint are similar in build, but the archer is almost half a head taller, also lanky with a helluva reach.

No one calls when time starts; rather, the two just move, Clint diving in, feigning to the uninjured side to come up on the opposite.  He swings with speed and compact strength with one hand while the other rides immediately behind it; Tony dodges the first, catches the second and twists to send Clint over his head. The marksman just leverages with his feet on Tony’s shoulders to jump instead of fall, he rolls effortlessly to come to his feet. Tony’s on the offensive, kicking out at the knee while his forearms block the punch to face. He keeps his elbows close to rib cage.

Clint steps out to avoid the jarring kick to his knee, but it puts him in the wrong spot and Tony’s knee springs up for a solar plexus blow, the ball of his knees falling in just the right spot to take the wind out of his opponent. Professional, though, Clint doesn’t even flinch other than lose his wind, but still slides forward to jab twice in fast succession. Only one lands across Tony’s face but the second is countered with a left hook, glancing off Tony’s elbow. Dipping lower, balancing himself on his thigh, Tony goes low for body jabs since his knee gave him that soft spot. He got two good ones in before Clint’s on him with another punch combination, nailing him with an upper cut while his fist was mid-strike. The few seconds of daze give Clint the edge he needs to step in, grasp a wrist and twist, laying Tony out.

The mechanic rolls before Clint’s foot stomps down, but it gives him the opportunity to hook his foot to trip the archer up, upsetting his balance long enough for him to be on his feet again.

Steve and Natasha watch the exchange, observing the moves of both fighters with focus on the mechanic. His style is cleaner, neater than the last time he’d practiced with them, still pulling his punches, still basic in style with boxing punch and cross combinations he telegraphs before pulling them off, ones any professional would see through. Clint, of course, is also holding himself back since Tony is still on his feet, but he obviously isn’t going to use joint locks or bone-breaking moves until the mechanic is closer to his level.

 Steve sighs gently and Nat quirks a brow at him.

“If anyone gets him out of that suit…” He shakes his head.

“Yup,” she agrees.

“Think he’ll take it seriously this time?”

“If Clint kicks his ass, maybe.”

“Hm. You used to kick his ass.”

“I also stabbed him in the neck with a syringe to save his life.”

 Well, she had a point.

 Clint has Tony in a reverse wrist lock, other hand on his elbow. The other two Avengers wait for Stark to call time since his hands are his way of life, but he seamlessly dips and spins to reverse the hold, making Clint roll out of it to grapple him down to the mats. Clint obviously hesitate just a second before he takes out the back of Stark’s knee to bring him down.

Usually, grappling was Nat’s specialty, and she watches with interest at Tony’s arm-bar, something she’s never seen him do. He looks like it’s not his first time, locking the arms against him, legs holding Clint’s upper body to the floor while he makes the tendons stretch painfully.

“Someone’s been studying,” she observes with a laugh.

Steve just shrugs, but he has a smug grin on his face.

The two catch the moment Clint finally decides to put some real effort into it; twisting his body to take the pressure off his arm and get out from under Tony’s legs at the same time. He’s upped the speed to make the turn vicious enough to get Stark off the floor and in a head lock, maintaining his center of balance so he can’t just be thrown off. One arm around Tony’s throat, the other holding his own wrist to maintain tension.

Tony is pretty much stuck, attempting an elbow to the solar plexus doesn’t get him anywhere, hands scrabbling at Clint’s face before the archer tucks behind Stark’s shoulder to avoid gouges to his eyes. His face getting redder by the second, Tony tries prying the arm away from his windpipe without results.

 “Tap me, Stark, I’ve got you.” The archer finally crows.

The mechanic still wrenches himself around, a futile effort.

Steve uncrosses his arms, waiting.

Grey spots are eating at Tony’s vision and he can’t _breathe_ just like when the Ten Rings put him under water… He blinks ( _not there, here, no cave, no space, no death, hereherehere_ ) and tries to keep struggling.

Clint glances up at Steve; once he gets a slight nod, he releases the hold. Tony drops to the mats, gasping air into his starved lungs.

“Jesus, Tony, you little shit,” Clint grabs his shoulders, turns him over on his back and sits his ass down at Stark’s side. “Never know when to give.”

“Used to,” Stark gasps out, his face finally losing the redness of oxygen deprivation.

“Nuh-uh, asshole, those were panic attacks when I tried choking you out. You didn’t have one this time.”

“B-Because I’m so full of awesome.”

“You mean so full of shit.”

“Maybe that too, sometimes.” Finally, a deeper breath (well, deep as he can get with the arc in his chest).

“Take five and walk it off, Stark.” Steve calls, “Nat’s ready for round two.”

Tony laughs and waves a hand in his general direction, “yeah, yeah.” But, after a minute or so, he’s on his feet, pushing his chin to crack his neck where the hold strained. Clint gave him a pat on the shoulder and switched places.

“Tony…” Nat gives him a small smile, and he understands. It’s been a while since they’ve been a team, so working back into trusting any of them _not_ to hurt him was going to have to be earned all over again.

 “We’re good,” he bends his knees, haunches, relaxes his muscles, and watches. Nat’s going to try and keep him off balance, maybe using different moves than her normal, make it hard to read.  Well, he’s a genius, after all.

 She starts low, coming in at a slide to take his legs out but he slinks in the fall, rolling, calculating. He’s got to counter at first since she’s always on the offense; it’s her cosmological constant, never going to wait for the fight to come to her. He blocks her knee with both forearms, protecting his side since she’ll automatically go for weaknesses first.

 The two grapple on the floor for long moments; Tony using his deflections and strength to fend off her blows while rolling and bucking to keep her legs from wrapping around any part of him (oh yeah, those mid-air flips are the thing of nightmares, it _hurts like a bitch_ to get thrown by her). He manages to strike out once her arms aren’t protecting her left side, the hard jab to her kidneys driving a hint of a breath out before he’s on her back, pinning her to the floor, arms under her shoulders to hold the arms behind her. His knees in the niche between her thighs so she can’t get leverage to buck him off.

 He pants against her back for a moment, unsure what to do know that his palms are meeting behind her neck. He vaguely hears Clint whistle behind him when her heel hooks around the back of his thigh and her body rolls with snake-like grace to throw him around on his back so she can slither out of the hold. The vertigo of the move makes his head light but he shakes it off, deflecting her grasp of his wrist and rolls to his feet, backing up two steps.

 She rolls up gracefully, her face twisted in displeasure. “Stark. Stop it right now.”

 His hands flap at his side ineffectively.

 “You _aren’t going to hurt me_. Stop holding back.” She dives for him, hands moving to jab for his soft spots, showing him she won’t be holding back.

 He dances to the side, not dodging fast enough for her to get a good glancing blow to his side. A noise echoes from the back of his throat before he can stop it, but he locks his knees against the automatic response of them to buckle. Instead, he uses his longer reach to his advantage, waits for her to strike and counters her arm, sliding his around to hold it so he can get a good shot at the soft spot below her ribcage before she can block with the other hand. He drops to his knees to get another shot, her free hand missing him in mid-swing.

 Releasing her arm, he slides on his back between her legs and jerks his lower body up to bring his calves and knees up against her lower body and _throw her_. Of course, it’s Nat, so she catches herself on her hands, effectively flipping around like an Olympic gymnast to face him again. He doesn’t see it, but Clint almost raises his hands to clap. Cap just keeps watching, eyes taking in all the new moves, new strategies. His face doesn’t give anything away.

 Tony shakes off the aching of his side and is on his feet, taking up his position again, ignoring Nat’s raised eyebrow; he watches, waits.

 When it’s obvious she’s not going to come for him, Tony huffs a little and takes offensive. He moves quickly, telegraphic his moves in the way his muscles bunch when he’s ready to strike. She’s got him pegged, raising a leg in answer to his head-on attack.

 Then, Stark hits his back, sliding under her kick to wrap his legs around her stationary one, take out her balance, and lock the legs to him in one go. He twists them, laying Nat on her belly on the ground, his thighs locked around hers while he holds the leg locked hard, making it pull in the hip joint.

 “Damn,” Clint whispers and it’s…it’s a good hold. Too bad Nat was…well, Nat.

 She probably didn’t mean to, but her strike hits him full in the side and Tony actually cries out in pain. She’s able to slither out of the leg hold while Tony’s eyes are closed, still frozen for a few important seconds. Her instinctual response to go for obvious weaknesses won out over control; she’s more pissed at herself than him.

 “Shit,” she says in English and kneels by him, moving his hands out of the way to pull his tank up enough to look at the bandage of his side. A few splotches of blood, not thick and oozing, but she’d helped him pop a couple of stitches; he shoves the shirt back down and sits up, red-faced and watery-eyed but moving.

 “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

She kneels there, giving him her best interrogator’s look, the one that usually has men begging to give her details.

“Nope, good over here. All good.”

“Hm. You went very pale there for a few minutes.”

“I should have seen that coming when I put a leg lock on you like that. Should have went for the Achilles’ lock instead. ”

“Probably would have worked better,” she replies apologetically, “I wouldn't have been close enough to get you at the side. You could have protected it better.”

“Live and learn,” he replies, blowing out a breath.

 “You two done talking about who’s got a date for the prom? C’mon Stark, let’s finish it up.” Steve puts on his airs as team leader. It’s his way and makes him look like a jerk, but it keeps everyone in the field moving (especially when they’re injured). It’s the same play he used with the Commandos. He’d cut it out when it actually stopped working, maybe.

 Tony shakes off Nat’s hand but Steve has a firm grasp of his elbow and Stark won’t shake _him_ off as easy. Steve’s face is grim when he peeks at the bandage for himself, using his pointer finger to pull the tank up Tony’s side while the fella is bending over a little with hands on his knees. The engineer shoos his hand away and straightens, the arc reactor moving when he takes in a full breath.

 “All right. Rounding it out, right?” Stark raises an eyebrow at Steve and Nat (not very happily) moves to stand with Clint, giving him a pointed look before turning to watch the final round off.

 Steve huffs a little and steps back, shaking out his limbs, cracking his neck with audible pops. Sizing the bigger man up like he always does, Tony takes stock of his own burning side, of Steve’s height and weight, his reach, his kick radius, his muscles mass, and aspects that could help him plan a better attack. Usually, he was pretty screwed with it came to fighting with Captain America; the guy knew more fighting styles than most ninjas and moved like a gymnast, so light on his feet it was impossible to hear him or predict what his next move might be. Combined with his talent as a strategist, he already knew Tony’s strengths and weaknesses, not to mention he wouldn’t hesitate using everything against him.

  _Gotta find a way to take him down fast_ , Tony thinks through the aggravated ache in his side, but something in his gut clenches when Steve moves into an easy crouch, blue eyes suddenly intense.

 Deep breath and Tony mimics him, sinking into a crouch, arms up in his boxing stance again. He’s has to divert, to mislead, do something Steve’s not going to expect. The Captain gives him less than a second to sink into his stance and raise his arms before he’s moving, a blur of blonde that’s dodging and weaving, going for a take-down. Apparently Steve wanted it to be over quick, too.

 Tony doesn’t even think, doesn’t have to. He’s already done this move with Happy more times than he can count when the big gallut rushed him like this. Tony makes a single step to the side and reaches out for Steve’s wrist while in mid-turn, ducking a little to put his hip in the right place. With Steve’s momentum and Tony pulling, he successfully has enough power to send Captain fucking America flying over his head and off the mats.

 But fuck if it doesn’t pop a couple more stitches. Bruce was going to be pissed because _he wasn’t that kind of doctor_. It would be fine, the Other Guy would be on Tony’s side.

 Nat and Clint stare, wide-eyed as Steve lands on his side a little hard and just rolls to come to his feet. He blinks at Tony, hands on his hips. Stark just gives a savage grin and moves on the offense, getting a few important moments of Steve’s defensive stance position; he wasn’t going to try the move that got Nat again, had to be unpredictable! He skidded to a comical stop less than three feet, eyes wide, pointing behind the Cap’s shoulder, “SHIT! GET DOWN!”

 And Steve, just, gullible old Steve. He spun, arm up defensively even without the shield on it (and seriously, the guy wouldn’t just _duck_ away from danger); Tony moved, knocking a shoulder into him from behind, arms already winding through Cap’s to pull back, to get leverage. He had another grappling move on the outskirts of his mind, one Rhoadey showed him that was incredibly hard to do but effective. Steve just had to…ah, yup, try to get out of the hold like that, flipping them both over. Tony just counters, swinging his legs over the blonde’s wide expanse of chest and winding them around the left arm, locking his ankles over the wrist while the other is in an arm bar. Tony’s whole body effectively pinning and stretching Steve’s arms with a thigh close enough to his exposed throat.

 Cap blinks at the hold, the ankles locked around his wrist and Tony’s tight hold of the other arm. With just a twist of his hips, Tony presses his thigh harder into Steve’s throat. The arms, however, ones that could bench press a Buick (or three) start moving up, fighting Tony’s hold, and that brute strength is winning inch by inch because, well, the Captain knows Stark won’t really put him in danger and press the leg hard enough into his throat to cut off his windpipe. It’s not the engineer’s way to take full advantage of a situation, use full strength, when he’s not in the heat of real battle.  So, slowly, Steve’s arms start move against the hold.

 “What’re ya trying to do, Stark?” His voice is hoarse from the pressure. “This is the worst hug ever.”

“Do…or do not, there is no try,” Tony replies, fighting to keep hold of the arm.

“I…ugh...get that reference.”

 Tony blinks and starts laughing abruptly, his whole body shaking. The hand he’d been holding just suddenly moves, so Steve had apparently decided to really use his strength and lift Tony’s body easily, the mechanic clinging to him like a limpet when the arm pulls high straight up in the air.

“Well, shit.”

Steve just grins with a shrug, “it was a nice try though. Good t’ see you trying new things.”

Tony lets go and flops back to the mat, energy flagging but he has enough to raise one pointer finger, “hey, I totally threw you. I get a gold star for that, really. You’re heavy, like a tree heavy.”

“I’ll grant you that, Stark. Pretty good throw. I’ll expect it next time.” Steve climbs to his feet and holds out a hand, eyes shining. “We check that side, then let’s get you caught up on some new moves.”

***

Several days later, Phil reads the Captain’s report (which, as he is very _not_ biased in reading all the Captain’s report first, happened to be on top) and the listing of Stark’s progress when the trio put him through his paces. He’s already known from Clint that Tony had shown some marked improvement, and it seemed the Captain was satisfied with adding him back on the roster once his injuries had time to heal.

 Once a new Iron Man suit was completed and tested, Phil wouldn’t have a way to keep him out of the team and that may provide an issue if Thor Odinson was still…broken. There would have to be another contingency in place so the god didn’t assume he was being singled out, and Coulson, the handler of the Avengers, starts puzzling out another way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some in-between stuff. Please be patient with Bucky...he's not ready yet. He will be but not yet. Have I mentioned these are unbeta'ed? I could use an idea buddy, a Jarvis to my Tony. Annnnnd, while you're reading, let me know how this scene turned out.


	10. Creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson gives Tony something to work on while he's not on active duty...but, Tony hates these things.

He hates making these things. Hates. It.

Tony’s hands are in his hair, pulling at the nests, making snarls with his fingers. He pulls painfully in some kind of self-punishment, angry with himself because he can’t fight this, it’s _necessary_.

The schematics are projected right in front of his face and his chest aches for it. His brain, however, isn’t having any moral or ethical dilemma but is in hyper drive with new concepts, streamlining, failsafe, upgrades, and security. All it knows is how to make the system, the individual parts and pieces, _better_. Damn, his brain is failing him and consequently _not_.

He’s so deep in his own self-recrimination that he doesn’t hear the door slide open (note: next time have F.R.I.D.A.Y alert him to company _before_ they get here).

“Hey.”

“Geeze!” Tony jumps, whirling around to stand so fast the stool falls over and clatters to the floor behind him.

Steve back up, one hand palm up in an ‘I-come-in-peace’ gesture. He has a plate in the other hand, and another small one balanced in the crook of his elbow. “Sorry Tony, I thought you heard me come in.”

Hand over the arc reaction, Tony sighs, closing his eyes a second to get his heart to calm down. “I didn’t, sorry, Cap. All good here.” He picks up the stool and sits down again, waving to minimize the glaring schematics in front of his face. He wave a hand to the other stool beside him. “Take a load off. Welcome back to the workshop de la Stark.”

With a rueful grin at Tony’s antics, Steve sets the plates down in front of the mechanic without flourish before he sits down. “Nice to be back,” it’s the first time he’s come in since the team has moved (in some cases, moved _back_ ) to Stark, um, _Avenger’s,_ Tower full time. He glances around for his buddies and gives a wave at them in their respective chargers, beeping and chirping, waving at him.

“Good t’ see ya, fellas. Get charged up first, okay?” He turns his attention back to Tony, who is looking at the plate with a wrinkled nose.

“It’s okay. I made it, not Thor.” Neither need to be reminded of the ‘I shall work this infernal device’ incident.

“Oh Thank God. I thought you might be trying to poison me. Not a smart move considering I fix your suits when you get them ripped or burned or melted or whatever.” He picks up the fork and shovel in some green beans, made with a little bit of butter and with some bacon thrown in, just how his mother used to make them before the human Jarvis made the majority of their meals.

Steve just scoffs, “c’mon, Tony, give me some credit. If I was going to kill you, I’d rip out some wires in the suit and call it a ‘malfunction.’”  He even uses air quotes, showing Tony how progressive he’d come in the last eight months. “It’d be the easiest report I’d ever have to write.”

Stark’s brow shoots up, “that so cold and calculating. What’s happened to good old-fashioned Captain America?”

“I’m a crotchety old man now, too bad you missed most of it.” He waves a fist, “you kids get off my lawn!”

A strangled laugh is pulled from Tony while he tries not to choke. “I always miss the good stuff, you know, picking up SHIELD, making tech for the Avengers, signing paperwork for SI. Hm, this is awesome.”

“I figure it’s been days or something since you last ate,” he chuckles, “I’m sure cardboard would be passable right now considering those terrible smoothies you drink alla time.”

“Rude,” Tony points his fork at Steve, “my smoothies rock and replace the need for food every day.”

“Nothing that tastes like that could ever replace food.”

“I see through you, Rogers, you just want DUM-E to make you smoothies and he won’t. Jealousy is a terrible color on you.”

Steve lets out a full belly laugh, shaking his head slightly, “heh. I missed this, Tony. Man, still always fast on your feet.”

Mouth full, Tony winks at him, “always.”

Steve glances at the schematics that were apparently what was giving his friend issues. “So, what’s the next great thingamabob you’re making? Tell me it’s a flying car, c’mon.” Captain America. Master strategist. Enough said.

Tony gives him a patient look, “that piece of crap only flew for about ten seconds. Besides, I built the Quinjet and it’s better than any flying car.”

“Maybe, but a flying car would be so keen. No traffic, no red lights.”

“No.”

“Fine, what’s this then?  Upgrades for a non-existent Helicarrier? That thing went down over the Potomac, you know.”

Tony blinks at him and his expression smooths out. _Uh-oh, we’ve got the ‘I’m-hiding-something’ face on_.  He chews slower, actually thinking about what he’s going to say before he says it, all of which do not bode well in Steve’s mind.

“Keeping the watch moving is still a good idea,” Tony says slowly, “the main installation stays upstate, the monitoring hub here in the Tower, but the third station may be a new Helicarrier. Maria and Colson talked about it before they brought it to me.” Tony throws his head to the side, motioning to the blueprints, “these are a mix of the old and new ones, I’ve just got to design…” he sighs and takes another bite to shut himself up.

Shrewdly, Steve doesn’t even have to make it a question, “The weapons system.”

“Yeah,” the plate is suddenly so interesting, it takes his full gaze.

“Hm.” Steve pretends to muse over the minimized schematics; really, he knows some of the inner workings of Tony Stark, enough that he knew where this should be heading, how to make it okay for Tony to build again. The whole Ultron thing blew up in the engineer’s face, scarred him deeper than the rest of the team realized and Steve had been prepared to bide his time once they moved back in—to wait and see what the effects did to Tony.  

Quietly, Steve observes, “you should start with the defense, the means needed to protect it.  If I remember right, that was a pretty big issue.”

Tony grins fondly, finishing up. Trust Steve to know what the hell the issue was and give him a better way.

“Like here,” Steve points at the smaller screen, “it was way too easy getting into this point right above the command center…”

Tony flicks a hand and makes the image bigger so he can see what Steve’s pointing at.

For hours after Tony finished eating, the two have combed over the new schematics, one at a time, and debated over the strengths, the weaknesses, the needs, just about everything they can.  Once they have finally seemed to agree on the majority of weapons needed, Tony feels so much better about not having to design them alone. Steve has his back on them.

Cap finally stands, throwing the tennis ball for the bots on last time. He stretches after hours on the opposite stool, his spine emitting a series of cracks. “All right, we got yer plans done, and it’s almost eight. Movie night’s going to start soon and it’s Bruce’s turn, so some sci-fi something you’re gonna love. Let’s go.”

Tony stands as well, he’d forgotten. Good thing Steve showed up or he would have been here all night, like he had been for the last few month...

The two walk to the elevator side-by-side.

“I’ll make the popcorn this time. Don’t tell Widow, but hers is nasty.”

Steve rolls his eyes, “I know. I know. It’s gotta be a Russian thing. Tasteless.”

“She does it so one of us will make it, you know that right?”

“No, she wouldn’t do that.  Well, come to think of it...” The elevator closes on the friends and the tension is finally eased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for the Kudos and bookmarks and whatnot. I love comments :D Seriously, LOVE them. Tony does too. Feed the muse.


	11. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Failure is a part of life...

It’s a deceptive thing. The idea of _safety_.

It was an ideal he strives for, works for, bleeds for, bruises for. Strange when considering his one-time goal was to make things to kill as many people as effectively as possible.  Now, the majority of things he makes are to ensure defense, protection, _safety_. Even the weapons for his team (odd, when did his mind start adding _his_ to this equation?) are made with the intent to protect.

The suit laying over his work table, a pile of fibers mixed with Kevlar, Nomac, and trace amounts of mental were just an attempt, mocking him.  The torn hole in the hip, still saturated with blood of the wearer, is a testament to his failure, one that almost cost her her _life_. She could have bled out in less than twenty minutes. She could have been taken out while that wound sluggishly seeped and slowed down her reflexes, she could have been snipered while she was down, she could have been captured and tortured, she could have been…

He doesn’t realize he’s standing over his workbench with his metallurgy hammer clenched so tight in one hand, his wrists are aching. His eyes are all for the black, shiny suit that was supposed to make sure she was _fucking_ _protected_. She should have been _fine_.

“Tony…”

His shoulders get tighter (if that’s possible) and he doesn’t fully turn, just half turn his head over one shoulder.  “How is she?”

Clint, standing closer than he should be, crosses his arms over his chest, hair messed up after a quick shower when the goddamned debrief was finally over. He was just dressed in sweats and a worn SHIELD t-shirt; for once, he didn’t have a bow strapped across his chest or a matching set of .45 strapped around his waist.

“Doctors say she’ll be fine. It was a glancing blow, so she was lucky she was so fast.” Clint’s sharp eyes went to the suit laid out over the table, the hammer in the mechanic’s hand. He’s an idea as to what’s going on now. “It wasn’t because of the suit, Stark.”

The man in question turns and his black expression makes Clint straighten with tension, expecting a brawl to start any second. He was already working out his moves, considering Stark was a lanky little sonofabitch with power in those arms from long hours of shaping metal, hefting engines, and keeping himself up on hand-to-hand with Steve. No fight with him was going to be easy, especially if he was hefting that hammer like it was a part of his arm.

“It _was_ the mother-fucking-suit, Clint. Look at that shit! Just look at it!” The wild gesture to the hip area makes Clint acquiesce to the demand; he walks around Tony to look at the palm-sized tear over the right hip with a critical eye.

“Okay,” Clint says slowly.

“The polymer should have been 15% stronger. _Fifteen fucking percent_ and it would have held. One more layer of Nomac and-“ _she’d be fine_ , “it wouldn’t have given out on her.”

Clint straightens slowly, turning to the tortured man and crosses his arms over his chest. He already knows how to handle this situation. “Calculate the damage if she’d been wearing her old uniform,” he orders without even thinking Tony might bristle. “You know the exact speed, weight, size, and trajectory of that shrapnel. What would have been the damage with the other suit?”

The re-direction makes Stark reboot for a second, his mind already following Clint’s order before his conscious mind caught up. The scuffs and worn spots in the sleeves, shoulders, back, and thighs would have been gouges taken out of skin. Tony’s mouth opens, snaps shut, and opens again without words.

“She would have died, Tony,” Clint fills in for him. “She wouldn’t be in the medical bay, she would be in the morgue.”

Ah, Tony flinches hard, just the reaction he was looking for. Clint steps up to bump his crossed arms right in the engineer’s chest, nudging the arc reactor. He stared his friend down, making his point all the more obvious without his usual humor and quips.

“Without you, we’d be burying her.” Clint makes it firm, “you saved her life with the uniform. For fuck’s sake, man. We all know what risks we’re taking every time we go out there, and someday…someday, it’s going to be a permanent fail for one or the other of us. All the tech in the world, all the weapons and armor and shields and arrows or smashing power isn’t going to be enough and nothing you make is going to be able to stop it.  One day, we’re all gonna face the final act, that’s just the nature of trying to save the world.”

Tony’s face smooths out into a blank expression Clint recognizes as his _hiding something_ face, the patented Stark face.

“That’s what’s messing with you, huh?”

A momentary pause and Stark’s eyes dart away, back to the suit, the blood stains, “Wanda’s head games,” Tony’s voice cracks just subtle enough for Clint to catch it, “she showed me…all of you dead. I-I couldn’t save you, any of you.”

“So you turned it into an obsession to try,” the taller man sighs gently, wishing the other guy didn’t have such a big fucking heart. That once and a while, he could really be that selfish asshole he pretended to be instead of spending _months_ in this workshop obsessing over keeping everyone alive no matter what they face.  If he wasn’t such a little fucker, Stark would be his number one favorite person (he’d never admit it to Nat though).

“I never dreamed I’d live this long,” is a slow admission, “never thought I’d have anything like I have now. I thought I’d be dead in some third-world country after I left the circus. SHIELD was supposed to be my ending point in this life.” He sighs, suddenly looking older. “Being an Avenger, you guys having my back, is a good thing, Tony. We have more of a chance out there with each other than we ever had alone. If—if we’d have been there to help you with the Mandarin or Killian and his AIM shitheads…” Clint shook his head and looks away from the mechanics, a muscle in his jaw working.

“The point is, don’t stop trying,” Clint finally says, “keep making tech, keeping being you. But, don’t let that image rule you, Tony. It’ll make you crazy with the what-ifs.”

Almost choking, Tony manages to say, “I’ll keep that in mind.” The two stare at each other for a moment in shared understanding. One day, one of them, some of them wouldn’t be coming back to the Tower…

“Am I interrupting?”

Both men turn to Steve in the doorway, showered and dressed in his civvies and carrying two motorcycle helmets.  They wondered how long he’d been standing there.

“We’re going to visit, Nat. She’s awake and probably already planning twelve different ways to kill her doctors,” Steve’s tone is playful in light of the obvious tension, “thought you two might come along for the ride.”

Clint gave a chuckle, already moving to the door while Tony snags his Iron Maiden t-shirt to go over his tank top and arc reactor. He gives the suit one last glance.

From the hallway to the elevator, Clint’s voice echoes, “how many people do you think you can fit on your Harley, Steve?”

The Captain just gives him a patient look, “you can ride in a car with Bruce, Sam, and Wanda, Tony’s going to ride with me,” his arm moves, swings the extra helmet out to thump Tony right in the solar plexus, grinning at the “oomph.”

Before the elevator doors close, Stark’s face takes on a comically wide expression, hands not even going to the motorcycle helmet in his gut. “Wait, What?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for reading :)


	12. Drabble: Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the world of spies and espionage, the truth is a hard-won prize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For justanotherBruceBannerfan that wanted some BruceNat. To be honest, so did I.

His eyes are inexplicably drawn to that span of skin inches from his fingers, lying casually on the bar’s surface. It’s the line of softness from the base of the palm to mid-forearm, delicate blue veins running under pale skin, a light dusting of freckles, and something in him gives a sharp tug of pain. He knows how that stretch of skin tastes, how it feels, how it holds _life_ pulsing under his lips. He knows the strength, the dexterity, he knows how the muscles shiver just so (subtle unless you’re looking for it) when there’s pain or agitation.  He knows he is one of the few people on the face of the planet that has the privilege to touch the real person that skin belongs to (the _real_ person, not the masks)—or, the operative word is _had_. Past tense.  

At this moment, he would give almost anything  _just_ to be able to reach out and trail his fingertips over that softness again. It’s a thing that haunted him after the first few months away: wanting to feel her skin against his hand, the other guy wanting that tentative touch his palm, feather light and warm. It had taken him too long to realize, much longer than it should have, for him to finally carve the blame out of his heart (since Wanda had a hand in the destruction) and allow himself to be thankful when the President gave the Hulk a pardon. Not long after he finally crossed the Koro Sea did she start haunting his dreams, her smile, her laugh, her real face, the small things he tucked into a corner of his brain while Ultron, death, blood, destruction, all of it whirled to take precedent.  And…And…

He was doing the  _right thing_ by her. She would get caught in the middle eventually, just like Betty. She would get hurt. She would die. He had to remember he left  _for the right damn reasons_ .

Still, he wants that simple, singular touch, wants it more than anything he has in recent memory—even more than getting rid of the Big Guy.

As if said other guy knew,  _knew_ more than he should, Bruce’s elbow twinges, spasms, and moves his hand forward a precious few inches so the tip of his index finger is stroking that skin so very gently, back and forth. He could have predicted the fine muscles would tremble for an instant before tightening under his feather-light touch, but the reaction doesn’t make him take his hand away; if anything, his touch deepens until he can faintly feel the rhythm of her pulse. He doesn’t look at her face, doesn’t want to see one of the many masks that regards him with cold eyes. He wants the warmth of this patch of skin. He has no right to it now and he is fully aware of it, but that doesn’t stop the  _want_ .

Her other hand brings the coffee back for a sip, only her second cup (because too much caffeine makes her jittery, throws off her aim), and she very carefully doesn’t move otherwise. The silence between them, as the only two in the communal area at this time of night, is broken by soft breathing, of cotton and silk on skin, of shifting knees, and his feet idly playing on the lower rung of the tall stool across from her. There’s so  _much_ he wants to say and then not, to just go back the way they were, to have something substantial to hold on to again, something  _both_ them could hold on to in this woman. A woman that told him a crushing secret, that trusted him enough to expose her inner most demons, when she trusted  _no one_ with her entirety, not even Hawkeye. Bruce had thrown it away, the real person underneath the Widow, and that betrayal made him and the other guy want to break something fragile and beautiful in recompense.

_“The graduation ceremony…they sterilize you…”_ And her face when she said this to him right after he destroyed Harlem, the agony buried so far under the Widow laid right in front of him, an offering at his feet.  She was ready to stand with him and be a monster, had given him her support, her own recriminations, but he’d been so lost in his own self-recriminations, self-loathing while the big guy had been a silent, brooding pool of anger swirling in his gut, and he couldn’t ( _hadn’t_ ) been able to really see her right then. He hadn’t been able to see it at all for what it was. Even when he came for her, offering to run,  _just to run the hell away_ , he couldn’t see that her choices were taken away. He’d been so far into his own head that the obvious escaped him.

Months away, months getting himself and the big guy back together, back to two minds, one body, one set of goals, brought it in sharp focus. By then, it had been too late. He’d lost something so precious, so reachable, and Bruce had no idea what to do, how to mourn for his mistakes in this. He could confess his sins to her, but a woman like her didn’t give second chances, a hazard of the life she led. So, his finger just whispers across her skin, feeling her pulse thrum to prove to himself that she is certainly alive. And like he’s been trying to do, she’s been moving forward.

Finally, the soft skin eases out from under his touch, leaves him feeling cold, and Bruce finally looks up at her face.   

The blankness of her expression makes something in him hurt. It’s the same expression she gave him in the old, upstate compound, full of professionalism and just a mask that she can put between them so he can’t see anything beyond it.

“Nat.”

One red brow raises, and he sighs, reaches on his own this time. His fingers lightly stroking that soft underside.

“I never said I was sorry.”

“…You did say you were sorry,” she counters.

“I said I was sorry for leaving without telling you, I was sorry for staying gone without letting you know me and the other guy were okay."

"Yes,” a side of her mouth quirks, but it’s not real. Right now, so much of it isn’t real.

“And I am, but,” that skin shivers under his touch, “I should have _heard_ you, Nat. Back then when you told me about the Red Room.” His voice drops unconsciously, like he’s trying to save her from the memories. “I didn’t register when you gave me this piece of yourself, and I’m sorry I didn’t even…” He swallows hard again, his fingers twitching gently against her.

A blink and she changes, the mask slipping off her expression slightly enough to let something terribly vulnerable show. “I shouldn’t have told you,” the voice is automatic, “not when we were facing extinction from a killer robot you helped Tony create.”

“No,” he counters gently, “I should have heard you, Nat. I was…messed up about what the Big Guy did, but I—I  _finally_ got you to start trusting me and it’s all…” The flash memory when she asked him when he would start trusting her, but she never really understood that he  _did_ . He trusted her with everything, but he couldn’t guarantee the other guy, the X factor in the sordid relationship. If she was ever  _hurt_ because of the Hulk, if she got on his bad side for any reason…no, Nat he had trusted.  

She draws back a bit and seems to realize she has, settling back in neutral lines, “I believe you might be confused, Dr. Banner, seemed to me it was the other way around.”

His other hand comes into play, curving slightly around her fingers, the pad of his fingers touching the pad of hers, eyes for the swirls and whorls of her fingerprints, the tips long since healed from a bad burn job. “No, Nat…No, no.” He clears his throat to try and work the hoarse quality out, “the Lullaby never would have worked on the other guy if I didn’t trust you. I—you were just so much of what I needed. Still need, but you can’t just leave behind a lifetime of doing what you had to do, what you do best, what they  _trained_ you to do…and when you told me, I should have realized what you were really telling me. I should have  _got it_ , Nat, and I didn’t. I’m—I’m so sorry. I was an idiot and I missed it.” Breathe, Banner. “I was waiting for something like that, for you to feel comfortable giving me  _something_ , and when you finally did, I partially disregarded it.”

Her mouth opens, works for a second without words. “What do you think I was trying to tell you, Bruce?”

He looks up again, meeting her eyes, “you were telling me that you could trust me, Nat. That I was worth prying open your secret compartment for a look inside.”

And there, a long breath out, the other hand tightening around her coffee mug, the small twinges that break the Widow down and leave Natasha, Nat, in her wake. Very gently, very slowly so she could stop him, could pull away if she wanted, Bruce handles her free hand, pulling it closer and pressing his lips to the delicate skin with the greatest of care. He lets his mouth linger there for longer than necessary, longer than she needs to get the point. But, it’s more for him than her. It’s for him to breath in her scent this close, for him to feel the silken softness again, for him to just curve his shoulders over the wrist and _be_.


	13. Drabble: Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gods are stubborn...and apparently have problems with kitchen equipment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thor needed a hug and some pancakes

He is enraptured by her warmth, twinging himself more closely around her, skin to skin. When he breathes out, she laughs so gently where the touch tickles her fair body; he loves this sound, the echo of her mirth, of her joy, of her with him. He will treasure each one he can wring from her.

 “I am enamored of you,” he tells her with all sincerity, with his truth.

That smile, the one just for him, while she cuddles him closer to the beat of her heart, breaks him in touches, for he is undeserving of her goodness, of her faith in him. He is a broken man, and still yet, he cannot give her up for one more worthy than he. Jane, with her intelligence and strength, her gentleness and fearlessness, is _his_. His life for her.

 “Hey,” her finger, her palm warm against his cheek, his beard stroked by the pad of her thumb. She tilts his gaze up, to meet her eyes even if it is difficult to do so, he does because it is she that asks.

 “I’m pretty sweet on you too, you know?” Her lips press to his forehead quickly before looking at him again.“Thor…”

“ _Sv_ _áss_ ” he whispers against the base of her throat, _beloved._

“I’m here,” her arms tighten, fingertips stroking the scar on his collarbone, one of the several left to remind him of… “Thor, I’m with you. No matter what.”

“Jane.” He closes his eyes, “I will never deserve you, Jane.” _For I am not the man you thought I was…_

She laughs gently, “you’re really something else, huh? You’re a god, Thor. I’m pretty sure that means I don’t deserve _you_.”

“Absurd,” he replies to her logic. “You are the unraveler of mystery, Jane. You conquer the secrets of the stars themselves. How could one such as I compete with this brilliance?”

 She laughs again but her cheeks are flush with pleasure at the complement; however, she frames his face in her palms, turns him away from the sweet stretch skin and turns him to her again, catching his eyes with her own.

 “You are a man that protects with every ounce of heart, Thor,” she whispers while her thumbs gently trace over his cheeks, “you are _the best_ kind of person. You’re not afraid to love with your whole heart, and that takes more courage than facing down alien invasions or scary outer space creatures. It takes so much, Thor, you don’t even know. Most people would run away and not look back. They wouldn’t stand up and fight like you _do_ ; they wouldn’t sacrifice without a thought like you.”

 She leans down just enough to nuzzle her nose against his in just the right way to make him smile. “I’m the one that’s humbled by you, you know.” Gentle kiss on his lips, “every time I look at you, every time I see not _what_ you do but _why_ you do it, I’m floored all over again. I get this feeling like I’m looking at the most beautiful soul to ever live.”

 His breath catches in his throat at her admission, mouth moving to deny her, but her hand fits over his mouth gently. “Nope, no denials.” Her tone is very factual, “I’m smart, remember? So I’m right. Besides, I really can’t think of anyone, anywhere that would give as much as you do. It’s like a part of your DNA,” at his furrowed brow, she corrects, “like part of your blood and bones. To give, I mean. I’ve never met someone that is so inherently _good_ as you, Thor.”

 His breath fans her palm and his eyes soften, believing in her slightly, for she is correct. Jane has a ruthless intelligence, so surely she must not be wrong…?

 Her hand moves then and she leans down to replace the hand with her lips, her sweetness. Her thighs press against his, and he’s suddenly on his back, eyes walking up the length of her bare perfection to the mad twinkling of happiness in her eyes.

 “And we, my significant other, are very good _together_.” Jane leans down to press their bodies together in an entirely new way, and Thor finds himself in agreeance. Of course, Jane is always right, he thinks as his rough palms slide up her sides, they do work well as a team…

 **

The infernal thing is billowing smoke and setting off alarms. Sighing to himself, he barely hears the elevator open, but the Falcon very nearly vaults over the island with a red canister in hand nonetheless.  He is a warrior of worth, quick to decide, strong of heart, and compassionate to the suffering of those he protected, all good traits that would see to his invitation to the great halls. A white mass erupts from the contraption and Thor holds a hand in front of his face to keep any of the substance for getting on him.

 The Falcon is breathing hard as though he has been battling hard. Thor just looks at the mess and back to the Falcon blankly.

 “Dude, seriously?” Setting the red canister down, the warrior runs a hand down his face, “what were you trying to do?”

 The god gives a helpless shrug, “Jane made these…these cakes in a pan the last time she graced my floor with her presence. She showed me the process to create them and so I was trying my hand at it as well!” A gesture sweeps the batter on the counter and the foam covered stove. “I did not think it would go so very wrong, friend Falcon, for I am certain I followed her instructions...” he picks up the discarded sheet of paper on the counter, scratching his head in confusion.

 Sam just _stares_. The god looks befuddled, lips moving, brows furrowed as he reads. The elevator opens again and a tumble of arms and legs and pushing. Clint literally lifts Wanda out of his way to come forward and survey the damage, mouth open and working but no sound coming out.

 Tony comes up behind him, hands on his hips, and brows arched into his sloppy hair line.

 Thor grins sheepishly and it’s a good thing to see. The tension in Clint’s shoulders ease and the rest of the jumble come forward, laughing at the mess.

 “Yes, yes,” Thor rolls his eyes as Nat dares to come closer to the stove, “have your mirth.” He waves one hand with the page covered in Jane’s neat writing (things on it, like ‘ _don’t walk away while pancakes are cooking’_ and _‘remember Darcy is wrong, you can’t magically throw them up to stick on the ceiling without practice_ ’).

 The Captain barks a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh yeah, we will. So much mirth over here, you won’t believe it” His blue eyes are twinkling even as he’s moving to get paper towels and pushing his sleeves up to his elbows to help clean up the mess.

 Tony nudges him with a shoulder, winking where no one else can see. “I don’t know, Cap, seems to me like Loki might have had a hand in this. I mean, damn, look at the…what were those supposed to be again?”

 Bruce has the charred pan in hand, holding up a flaking breaded wonder in the other hand, brow raised at Thor. “Let’s just start over,” the doctor soothes, “we’ll take it slow. No problem.”

 Steve is still laughing to himself, spraying the top of the cleaner and wiping the mass of foam away. Natasha bumps his hip with her in reproach, but she’s visibly biting her bottom lip while helping and dumping the saturated paper towels the the trash can Sam is holding.

 Thor just shakes his head again, “you know, Tony, ‘tis very possible my sibling cast his mischief herein…”

 Clint just looks up from making coffee and gives the god a patient look.

 “Ah,” Thor coughs in one hand, looking away. “Well. Mayhap I should not attempt to use this infernal device again. It does not care for me.”

 “You just need to learn to use it _better_ ,” Nat soothes when the mess is finally somewhat clean and Steve is taking the burner apart to make sure there is no visible damage.

 Thor, again, waves the paper around. “This is my attempt to do so! Jane even wrote down the instructions!”

 Tony takes the paper with an arches brow and reads silently, Bruce hovering over his shoulder to do the same.

 “Okay, we’re good here.” Steve puts the pieces back together, surprised that there isn’t even a scorch mark. He ducks down to open the cabinets to find another pan, then a second one, and a third. He lays them out while Sam hands Natasha bacon and sausage then the eggs.

 Clint starts pouring coffee into mugs (the ones with the runic Mjölnir on the side, each a different color, so _everyone_ can be worthy, Tony’s words) and hands one to Wanda, who is perfectly happy out of the way by sitting at Thor’s bar with her cheek propped up in one hand. Her eyes are twinkling at the gathering, watching them snark and play between them.

 “Perhaps,” she hedges, drawing their attention to her, “we should spring to get Thor some cooking lessons, no?” She’s grinning wide, one brow arched. “I have an apron that would fit your _perfectly_!”

 Steve bursts out first, the others following, good-naturedly slapping Thor on the back. At a loss, the God of Thunder just stares at her with jaws slightly agape before he thinks to ask, “what is an apron then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. This made me smile.


	14. Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something drastic has to bring Tony and Thor back to Active Duty; based on Tony's saying, 'sometimes you gotta run before you can walk.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to self: Don't piss off the God of Thunder. (Also, *Action* is not my strong suit)

Coulson’s mouth is still moving, still being _Agent_ , but Tony isn’t tracking anymore. His heart is hammering in his chest, fear a bitter tinge on his tongue. 

 “Where was he when comms went down?” Nat asks quickly.

  _There, thank-you, Russian Barbie_.

 “On the outskirts of Latveria. We found signs of a fight that had taken place and a chemical compound the techs are still in the process of analyzing. We believe it was engineered to subdue him.”

 Tony’s forearms bunch, fists clenched, “so he’s in Doom or Hydra territory with no back-up and drugged. _Fucking perfect_.” Abruptly, he spins on his heel.

 “Don’t go off half-cocked, Tony,” Phil requests, “we’re sending you with the others. Consider this your welcome back to Active Status.” He tosses a few stapled papers on the table in front of Tony, who gives them a courtesy glance, catching words like, _armaments, should the signer be in an unfortunate accident…_

 To the others, Coulson continues, “the secondary issue—“

“There’s more?!” Clint already has a spare pack of EMP arrows and two other packs of assorted types. His favorite handguns are lying on the kitchen counter and _no one_ saw him even take them out. Just _ta-da_ and weapons.  If he was getting out guns, then the situation was more serious than anticipated and the others seemed to also take this into account. Tony hadn’t even noticed everyone else preparing for a definite battle around him while his head was so deep in the whole _fuck fuck fuck, what are they doing to Steve_ territory.

 “Out with it, Agent.” There. That was better.

 Coulson sighs through his nose, “we have found some brief footage of them taking the Captain…he was—“

 Tony’s heart jerks again, everyone else pauses in mid-motion.

 “What Son of Coul?” Thor demands, stepping up and…he’s got the hammer already. The guy is in his armor _and_ cape, not just regular old Earth people clothes Jane keeps helping him pick out.  The god had been in reserves since the last Doom fight to deal with the fallout from the whole Asgard-is-falling stuff. Apparently, he wanted back on Active Status too and is ready to kick some ass. “What have they done to the Captain?”

 Phil meets his gaze directly, “we believe they’ve found a way to neutralize the serum and its properties.  Whether this is a temporary way to incapacitate the Captain to make him more… _manageable_ … or a permanent solution is not clear from the footage.”

 The air in the room is sucked out, stale. Tendrils of red wind and slither over the floor like serpents to show just how disturbed Wanda is as the lights give the barest flicker. Hawk and Widow exchange a blank look that is scarier than the ‘we’re going to go kill shit now’ expression. Rhoadey stands from the counter, his eyes moving to the elevator that would take him two floors up to where his armor was in the docking station after some repairs. Sharp cracks from the corner is Sam’s fists clenching so hard his wrists and knuckles snap, his eyes are full of _someone’s going to get beat the hell down_. Vision is more grim than Tony’s seen him, spine perfectly straight while his mind already works to calculate probabilities, just like his old man is currently doing.

 “The intel we have is five hours old as of,” Coulson checks his wrist watch pointedly, “fifteen minutes ago. You are being asked to assemble for departure in twenty seven minutes. Gather intel on the Captain’s whereabouts and extract. If possible, detain the responsible parties.” Coulson looks around at the team, “questions?”

 At the sound of Coulson’s detached, professional tone, movement starts all over again: Sam is heading up the stairs immediately for his pack; Rhoadey follows, taking the steps two at a time. Wanda moves to the cabinets in the kitchen, rooting around for some power bars, water, things Steve will _need_ since he’s in captivity, she doesn’t go for medical supplies because that will be in the Quinjet, but she will steal into the Captain’s room to get a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt for his comfort. Vision, arms crossed over his chest, is looking at the floor while pacing behind Wanda without getting in her way (a slippery slope) since she is _everywhere_ , darting quickly in her attempt to anticipate what Steve may _need_.

 “I need more guns and knives,” Nat says to herself, also going to the elevator. She pauses long enough to glance at Bruce over her shoulder but keeps walking.

 “Uh,” Bruce takes his glasses off, rubs his eyes, “we only have standard equipment in the Quinjet…” which read as _nothing that could tell them about the composition of serum in Steve’s blood_. Bruce is thinking of his portables and turns immediately on his heels to make a quick drop to his lab for a few things that might help if the Captain has been drugged with whatever foreign substances.

 Tony, forcing himself to breathe and calm down to avoid utter fucking _panic_ , calls out, “J.J. Deploy the Mark X, **now**.”

**

Tony and Clint are at the controls of the Quinjet; tracing the last signal from Cap’s shield. Tony is so completely focused as his mind works (he’s still angry that he’s not outside the jet, breaking the sound barrier while the others follow him. He _should_ be trying to get there as fast as he could before the trail goes cold and they _lose the chance_ ); he’s taking every scenario he can think of to plan strategies: Hydra, Nazi holdovers, The Watchdogs, Skeleton Crew… But, it’s looking like Doom has a hand in whatever might be going on because, well, _Doom_ and this close to Latveria, duh. Just, duh. Though, it seems like several of their foes just happen to have nice polished compounds around the small nation (ones that just keep getting rebuilt), so really, he’s not going to assume. Instead, he’s playing the snippet of video over and over in his mind, trying to find some detail he might have missed the first ten times. By the look on the assembled faces, they are too.

 Nat, however, has a StarkPad in hand and literally _is_ watching the feed over again, her eyes combing over every detail she can: four masked men with an unconscious Cap held between two of them, blood painting his uniform in dark splotches visible even with the grainy black and white (seriously, who in this day and age still has black and white surveillance equipment?). The fact that only _two_ thugs are carrying him attests to the serum-blocking what-the-fuck-ever compound they shot into Cap before taking the rest of the small squad with him out.

 Tony just breathes and goes back to the control panel, adding ‘random masked terrorists’ to his mental rolodex, listing a plethora of possible weaponry to their arsenal.  The constant planning keeps him in the cockpit. Even if he thought about trying to get out, the rest of the team was crowded behind their seats: Sam keeps clenching his fists and shifting from one foot to another; Bruce is solemn but his knuckles are white where his cradles his own elbows, trying to keep himself together; Wanda, usually calm, is extraordinarily focused, only giving short answers and observations; Vision is doing his own calculations, talking quietly at Bruce’s side; Rhoadey refuses to take off his helmet “just in case” and Tony plans to have a really good sit-down with his honeybear to find out what the fuck is going on with him, but he will once Steve is found and back home.

 Thor, however, is standing completely silent, apart from the rest of the crew, his huge frame nudged under the curve of the jet by Tony’s right hand, staring out into the sky. Tony has a second to worry about where they big guy’s head may be at right now or where it could be when the fight starts. With some of the pieces of the war on his world started coming to light, Tony could understand why the guy had changed so rapidly. Facing mortality, the possibility of _dying_ , and everything coming out wrong even though you had _the best of intentions_ was a Tony Stark special. In hindsight, maybe he should have made Coulson ground the God, put him with the SSARS crew hovering a few miles behind them in the newly constructed Helicarrier, waiting for word from the Avengers before they start sending in bodies to help with whatever in the hell they might get into. Thor could have been hanging out, drinking a latte or something. It would have been a nice view from the Helicarrier.

 One glance at Hammertime’s clenched jaw and intent stare, Tony sighs.

 They’re almost to the border where Steve’s signal went black and Coulson’s departing words echo,

 “ _Keep in mind: we have no idea what they’ve done to him now that he’s vulnerable. They could have planted a ticking bomb in him for a rescue—the proverbial Trojan Horse. Banner needs to avoid letting the Other Guy out to play at all costs. We need to know what they’ve done to him.”_

 Clint finally calls it, “begin descent. Less than a quarter mile from the border.”

 “Copy,” Tony manipulates the controls with gauntleted hands.  Iron Man’s face is starting back at him from the top of the control panel, waiting.

 “Vision?  We got anything from the open channels?”

 The life form blinks, in a few seconds he is sighing, “nothing mentioning the Captain; however, Viktor Von Doom is already aware of our presence here—“

 “Let him come.” Thor interrupts ruthlessly.

 Vision continues, not deterred. “He is bringing reinforcements, Iron Man. We shall stand, shan’t we?”

 All eyes turn to him as the Quinjet descends more rapidly.

 “Uh…” Stark glances over his shoulder when no one else answers. “We’ll kick his metal ass. It’s habit at this point, right? Like, tradition?  Anyone any good with a giant magnet? Do we have the number to the Acme Corporation?...Okay, why the hell are all of you staring at me?”

 Bruce lowers his arms to flex his hands, “well, without Steve, you’re next in charge, Tony.”

  _What?_ “What? Wait. What now?  No. Noooo, no. That’s idiotic,” Tony turns back to the control panel and lowers the landing gear. “I thought we established a hierarchy that doesn’t involve the ‘tag, you’re it’ mentality. I mean, really, didn’t Steve plan for this? I think it would be something he would have planned for. Russian Barbie? Who’s next in charge?”

 Widow, eerily still, doesn’t even give him a twitch. Tony looks back to the spans of empty land in front of them, easing the jet down to touch ground.

 “You are the other strategist,” Wanda replies gently, “our tactician. It makes the most sense.”  She leans over Tony’s shoulder, one finger pointing out, “there. Doom is rapidly approaching.  It is not a doll or a double, the thought patterns are his own, but he’s still too far and well shielded for me to tell if he has seen our Captain.”

 Tony eases back and the landing gear hitches, slowing them down. “Good to know, Wanda. Seriously, we are so going to play poker later, I’ve got dibs on you for my team. V will have to deal.”

 At a rolling stop, he powers the jet down while Clint sets the security measures and lowers the walkway. Both stand, Tony grabbing his helmet and Clint slinging on his quiver and extra bundles over his shoulder while the bow stay in the crook of his arm, he’s clicking the locks to his straps in place while Tony fits the helmet on and cracks his neck.

 Everyone is staring again. _Damn it._

 Tony hesitates, takes approximately two minutes and twenty-eight seconds to calculate. “All right Avengers. Here’s the play: Hawkeye, we got little to no cover or perches, you’re on top the Quinjet, wait for my signal to start slinging, keep your eyes peeled. We need to see what you see. Keep the EMP arrows handy, there’s more in the storage container. Fliers—War Machine, Falcon, Vision. War Machine on offense, Falcon on recon first, Vision gets me into Doom’s systems stat. I want to know what he knows. J.J. will be hacking too. Widow, do what you do best. Witch, same. Fight and infiltrate if it comes down to it. Bruce, hang back here in case we absolutely need the Hulk, but try to avoid it unless we’re getting our asses handed to us. Keep the backpack safe, when we find Steve, we’ll need it.”

 Thor shifts and Tony hesitates. “Thor, I need you on the ground, you’ve got to be the other muscle if those incoming numbers are as impressive as they look on screen. Mow ‘em down, they’re machines and we need them out of the way to get to Doom. He’ll use them as a barrier and you’ve got the _chutzpah_ we’ll need to break that barrier.” Tony is absurdly happy when Thor’s grin grows wide and his eyes take on that old light when he was ready to start kicking ass without taking all the names. “All right, questions?”

 The team just gives out negatives and the sound of rumbling engines gets ever closer, clearer. Doom is almost on them.

 “Remember, people.” Tony unconsciously shifts, his distorted voice bleeding with something very unlike him, “time constraints. We’re here to find the Captain and extract. If he’s…” _don’t fucking think about that_ “—well, then we’re taking them the hell out. All of them.  Whoever they are, wherever they are. We’ll avenge him.”

 Finally, the group rouses, choruses in agreement and as a cohesive unit, begins to move.

**

Doombots surround the ground team, different flavors of ones the Avengers (sans Tony) have faced before. It’s like Doom is having a hold-over attack with the older models that are slow as hell and clumsy, just target practice really or cannon fodder. The back lines of bots with arms already out and ready to fire, however, are his updated newer models, equipped with better weapons and tracking systems. These ones have lasers and hidden mechanisms designed for a specific type of fighter; some of them are ground troops, some of them are fliers, some of them have weapons to cut through armor and some have enhanced movements to keep up with the dodgey spies and Cap.

 So, it’s definitely a real pain that Hawkeye is the most vulnerable right now; Tony should have considered that when he put him up on the jet.  _Cap would’ve thought that through._ Twenty seconds as team leader and he’s already failing pretty epically. Figured. Steve was going to be royally _pissed_ if anyone got seriously hurt during this whole thing, but, if Tony’s any good at being, well, himself, then the Avengers were going to be just fine. Hopefully. Probably. Statically speaking, still breathing. Still, Tony can see Cap’s _I’m so disappointed you got hurt_ face on the edge of his mind’s eyes.

 Right. Fighting. Bots. Kidnapped Star Spangled Grampa. Priorities.

 The bots are creepily still, maintaining a boundary from the heroes, as the monarch himself steps out of his personal helicopter, cape flapping in the wind while the propellers wind down. He’s in true supervillain mode since he had the home field advantage and all; hands on his hips, and swarms of his creations ready to tear into the smaller team. It’s rote at this point that Doom has some cackling to do. Usually the guy is a _real_ horse’s ass in New York because diplomatic immunity and whatnot, but the beauty of landing out here, _outside_ the Latverian border: Doom’s political power goes down a few notches. The drawback, a metric shit-ton of tech and bad guy speeches. Terrible speeches. Just, next time bring a PowerPoint and be done with it.

 “Well, well. And here I thought it was the Four’s week to get on my nerves. At least I don’t have to go all the way to New York to stomp the Avengers in to the ground, how sweet that you all came to me.”

 While Doom builds up the momentum for his ‘you’ll all die with your faces ripped off and roasting in hell’ speech, Tony is furiously calculating the odds and how many each member can take down. _One of Clint’s arrows has a four foot blast radius, times 125 arrows, firing at 24.5 per minute…_

 And, not even a half minute into the monologue, Thor’s voice comes over the comm line, deceptively calm while the sky above them darkens with ominous lines of pure black. The HUD readings flash with the hums with static starting up.

 “Brethren, sisters…Get. Back.”

 “—Not that I mind you’ve come all this way just to test out my new generation of toys, but you came quite a way just to _die_ and that’s so darn considerate of you—“

 FA-KOOM.

 The sky lights up, impossibly, blindingly bright, and the ground explodes.

 The HUD throws up _all_ kinds of error messages. Layer upon layer of lightening erupt from all directions, striking physical blows, tearing through the bots and Doom himself in a mass of blinding light and the scent of ozone. The cacophony leaves the electrical charge hovering thickly, oppressive, almost a physical press. A massive bolt strikes the heart of Viktor Von Doom before he can flee, leaving him a quivering, steaming, _screaming_ mess of glaring metal.

 The team, even the originals that have seen, first-hand, Thor’s control over the element, are staring in utter amazement and even fear.  Yeah, a harsh reminder that Thor is a _god_ after all, but the display just makes the unconscious thought wander back: _what the hell **really** happened during the big, bad battle on Asgard?_  

 Bruce swallows hard from the Quinjet’s cockpit, not aware Thor had this amount of control. The spies, of course, note the god’s capabilities for later reporting; Tony makes sure to hover just _this_ far off the ground in case more proverbial shit hit the fan, eyeing Rhoadey and Sam above his head to make sure the other suited Avenger was doing the same.  But Wanda, the Scarlet Witch, refuses to back off from just over Thor’s right shoulder, staring at him with a careful expression schooling her features. The pain that has radiated from the god since his return to Earth has taken time in finally beginning to ease, and it seems with this mission, to save one of their own, he is more determined to start moving forward yet again.  She chances a glance at the calm figure of Vision hovering just at her side, obviously ready to swoop down and grab her should the strikes come too close for his level of comfort; otherwise, he watches with approval.

 With the whole team behind him, something in him seems to calm just enough to remind him _why_ he’s there, why he’s _here_ in this realm, why he keeps fighting, why he cannot stand down regardless of what they will face. This moment with them gives him back something precious he had lost, and Thor shoves his arm in the air again, throwing his head back to cry out for _battle_. The sound tears from his throat, a catharsis, a roar he didn’t know still resided within him.

 The next multiple strike is impressive and successful; metal parts and pieces from the decimated mass scatters far, yet the mass of metal men are moving, scattering, coming at him and the others to begin the attack. As if signaling the others, Iron Man raises his hands and rapid fires repulsor blasts into the oncoming army; he darts through the air as the fliers take off and start after him, War Machine, and Falcon. That snaps the team and everyone jumps to; they start to _move._ Thor’s ridiculously hard kick sends a machine through the three behind it to end up a pile of scrap metal, his eyes narrowing dangerously at the arm of one seemingly shaped like a hammer. Widow launches herself up and through, bites clenched in both fists (saving her guns for when her arms need a break), Witch’s red mist snaps and jerks bots around her, ripping into them. Vision checks to make certain she is protected, a fact emphasized when an arrow takes streams through the neck of the bot coming up behind her, before he vanishes to Doom’s helicopter.

 Thor’s eyes are a glowing blue fire as he strides through the madness, a god on a mission. He pummels anything that comes before him, decimating the ones that have a similar hammer that create sparks of electricity.  This is what their creator envisioned in his power? Then Thor would indeed show him the full hand of _might._ He raises his hand yet again and the strike center on the evil metal man, not a single blow but several. It is but moments before the god stands over the crying, screaming monarch like Death come calling, hammer clenched in a huge fist.

 And the Witch, in the midst of her weaving, catches _it_. The random moment, a glimpse of sight from the man on the ground writhing. He is thinking he should not have bargained with the devil, regardless of gaining the insight to physical strength and prowess. There were other ways to discover the secrets to _immortality_ …other than the formula creating Captain America…

 She cries out abruptly, knees trembling, but still throwing bots around into one another. She flinches when one lands a few feet from her foot, an arrow embedded in the back of the head. For Hawkeye, she is absurdly grateful. She gasps into the comm, “he _knows_. He has had a part in the Captain’s disappearance. He knows _something_.”

 After the convulsions leave the villain to finally fall to the ground, still mewing from the utter agony of _being struck by godly lightening multiple times_ , Thor’s eyes flicker to the Witch behind him, but he gives her a grim nod before he bends at the waist to wind his free hand in the throat of Doom’s cloak and haul him up so the two are face-to-face. He will make certain this metal man will fucking _heed_ him well.

 “You puny, _pathetic_ little mortal,” so reminiscent to Loki’s words, Thor sneers both in anger and memory, “I am a **_God_** , a protector of _Man_. One such as you shall never be my undoing.” He thrusts his hammer aloft again and another strike rains down on them from the heavens, the sound combining with Doom’s renewed screams. Tony arrives just to actively push the Witch and Widow back with both arms but not touching in case he gets struck. The bots around them pause in a knee jerk reaction to their sensor but immediately getting antsy and start moving again.  War Machine swings by to give the ladies a hand while Falcon maintains the perimeter and takes out the last few fliers. Hawkeye, for some reason, is _still_ perched on top the Quinjet like a dumbass (because, you know, lightening and metal equals _bad_ ), arrows notched and flying with his incredible speed and accuracy, and Iron Man is free to keep watch on the recovering god just _in case_ he may go a little…far.

 The strike abates and leaves Viktor Von Doom dangling from Thor’s grip, shaking and twitching.

 “You _will_ tell us where our Captain is, or I will **rain fire** upon you and all you hold dear. I will call the elements down until you are naught but a pile of _wretched torment_.” Thor bares his teeth in a snarl.

 Fighting through the few still-functioning bots between them and the god, Tony and Widow make their way to Thor’s side and a glance around just prove how _utterly kick ass_ they are since the bots are much, much less of a threat now. Of course, well, they were the Avengers after all.

 "Hey, big guy! We need him breathing to talk, okay? Good strategy, though. Beautiful delivery. I mean, seriously, wow. I’m wowed.” The helmet turns to Widow long enough to ask, “are you wowed? Seriously, Hammertime. Do you know how hard it is to wow me, of all people? Did you have a special effects guy to help you map that out? Tell the truth, I won’t judge.”

 Without looking away from his prey, Thor’s snarl changes to a little grin at Tony’s soothing voice over the comm line, “Thank-you, Man of Iron. It is, how you say, ‘all about style.’”

“Aww, you’re making me blush over here.” The helmet turns to Widow again, who has her game face on and  _not_ smiling (even though she probably wants to) “am I blushing? Is it noticeable? Handsome guys always make me blush.”

 That exchange, however, gets a laugh out of everyone in the middle of a good fight (as is Tony’s usual way)…but there’s not voice joining them in the laugh, trying to say, “Keep it professional, people.” A sobering thought that has Tony’s attention on Doom.

 Which reminds him: “How are we doing on the hack, J.J.?”

“The Vision and I have accessed the main network via the connection on Dr. Doom’s helicopter, Sir.”

“Get me ALL the files, anything pertaining to Cap first.”

Doom manages to choke out, “don’t have…your Captain…”

Thor hefts the villain a little higher.

 Tony easily taps the back of Thor’s free hand with the tips of the gauntleted fingers, “really, Vik? Somehow I don’t believe you. Maybe Thunder Lad here should hit you a few more times with that big nightlight _just_ to make sure your memory isn’t a little foggy.”

 Raising Mjölnir threateningly an inch from Doom’s mask, the god’s face is schooled in concentration. Above their heads, several streams of lightening flash out like forked tongues across the sky.

 “I…swear…only the cameras caught…the attack. No interference from Doom.”

 “Uh-hu,” the Iron Man helmet nods, like Tony is the mood to be _reasonable._ “Sure you didn’t. Why?”

 “Wh--“

 “Why didn’t you interfere, Vik?” Tony draws his name out while Thor bares his teeth in another frightening snarl and shakes the villain a little with obvious threat, like he’s just _this_ close to lighting the metal man up again. “Taking Cap down is like, a villain gold metal, and you’re in the decathlon of the Villain Olympics. Either A) you’re lying and Cap is in your terribly tacky dungeon somewhere. B) Whoever took him has some kind of agreement with you, like a not-so-super-villain pact or something. Or, my personal fave, C) Whoever took him is someone _you don’t want to mess with_. So, Heavy Metal, which one is it?”

 The bots are scattered to bits and the rest of the Avengers assemble around the interrogation, giving support and the promise of retribution. Falcon swings by the snatch Hawkeye’s hand and drop them both with the group, standing with the metal corpses. The Scarlet Witch’s eyes are like fire, narrowed on the injured monarch. She is, for the first time since joining the team after the battle against Ultron and the death or her twin, utterly fearless.

 “Iron Man,” she steps through the others and reaches out a hand, “let me _try_.”

 Thor’s eyes slide to the helmet, a brow arched in question. A minute nod and the god turns Doom into the Witch’s waiting hand…

**

His chest hurts, an ache that is so familiar in the back of his mind, but that’s…not right. He hasn’t hurt like this since the serum…

 Can’t open his eyes, too heavy, his limbs weighted down and he’s just trying to remember something absolutely important, something crucial. He’s found out… _something_ and he’s gotta get back and warn the fella. They’ve gotta get the Tower locked down so he can’t be taken away. Nope, the fella’s a part of his _team_ , his unit even if they aren’t really soldiers or anything. You just don’t leave a man behind, you’ve gotta get his back. Steve needs to let someone know, Tony or Nat or Coulson or some _one_. They need to keep him protected, keep those bastards away. If anyone can fight them, it’s Tony. Tony could…

 His memory reels in on that time on the Helicarrier with Tony when they were fighting, almost biting each other’s heads off and the fella picked up the spear to make them all stop fighting. His intentions were always the best, no matter what. That fella always tried to do the best thing for the most amount of people because he wasn’t selfish, he wasn’t like the rest of them that cultivated what they had. He was forced into it and everyone always kind of felt bad for him in that way.

  _Pain_. That’s not good. Pain usually doesn’t hit him this hard, not from something so hanky as a needle in the forearm…

 “He is responding to stimulus,” a voice says above him and it’s not a voice he recognizes.

“We’ve got the samples of blood we need, so get testing. I want the composition of that serum ASAP.”

“Of course, General…”

  _General…?_ Damn. Dammit. He didn’t make it back in time after all, did he…?

**

Bruce turns away from the group, away from the Witch, Iron Man, Widow, Thor, Doom and the rest, rears his head back and lets out an animalistic cry. It’s not in his own voice, it’s the voice of the Other Guy. And the Other Guy is raging in the back of Bruce’s mind, in the corners of his body where the bones and muscles reach. He’s battering around, _insanely angry_ and he wants _out_.

 Iron Man had already sent Widow and Hawkeye to Doom’s helicopter to get the security footage, faces, directions, _anything_ that can tell them where those _sons of a bitches_ may have taken Cap, so no time for a Lullabye (not like they’d been using it anyway). Thor is standing over the monarch with his hammer threatening and the very air around the guy is stifling, thrumming with barely-contained rage and the positive charge of electricity. Witch is right beside him, staring Doom down. Rhoadey lands beside him and the two nod at one another, approaching Bruce with hands in the air.

 “Big Guy,” Tony removes his helmet so he can look into Bruce’s green eyes and talk directly to Hulk, dipping his head a little to the left and down (as he’s taken a habit of doing so the big guy _knows_ for sure Tony is talking right to him).  Those green eyes fix on Rhoadey behind him and then Tony’s face. Animalistic growls are coming from Bruce’s throat but aren’t him—the guy is almost completely gone so Stark is wracking his brain on how to help Bruce keep it together long enough for them to get to Cap.

 “I know, Big Guy, I _know_ ,” Tony swallows, “you want to rip him apart for everything. I _get that_. I swear, once we get to Cap and Bruce helps him, you can smash their compound to dust, okay? Like _into nothing but particles_. Don’t kill anyone, you can’t really beat ‘em around, but we can beat the shit out of their place of business, promise! They made a deal with Doom to get Steve and crack the serum for their stupid Weapon X thing, but **_Big Guy, we can’t save Steve without Bruce_**. We. Can’t. Do. It.” Tony steps closer, putting their faces closer, ignoring how Bruce’s chest is heaving with the Hulk’s breath, “Please, Big Guy. Steve might die.”

 “Ross,” the name is growled out in Hulk’s tone, vibrating through the air.

“And Stryker, Army rejects that can’t stay the hell away from the good guys. Yeah, we put ‘em _away_ , Hulk. We’ll put _them in fucking cages_ , you get me? Look at me. Hulk, LOOK at me. Have I lied to you?”

 Bruce’s head shakes in that shaggy dog kind of way Hulk has and his eyes take on a dimmer green.

 “I’m not about to start now. These guys are going to do fucked up stuff to Steve and we have to get there _before_ they do. It might already be too late, but at least, with Bruce, we might have a chance. If not…then I’m calling you out to smash shit up. Okay? Can you help us out, Big Guy?”

 Bruce, _Bruce_ , breathes out and looks up with his eyes. Tony dips his head again to address the Hulk, “thanks, Big Guy. Thanks.”

 The doctor seems to shake himself again, the backpack still on him when he just suddenly came down the Quinjet’s walkway with _that_ look (the one that was about two point two seconds away from letting the other guy out to beat the ever-loving hell out of their monarch/villain for working with the ex-Generals).  He holds up both hands, easing down and grinning at Tony.

 “You’re better than the lullaby.”

“I get the Big Guy his fave pizza. We bond, you know.”  
“He loves the stupid cat posters, Tony. Really.”

“Hm, I’ll have to get F.R.I.D.A.Y to order more. There’s a really cute one of a cat in a lab coat, Bruce. _In a lab coat_! Can you believe it?”

“…actually, yes. Science Cat prefers Tesla to Edison.”

“Oh my—did you just _make a joke_?”

 CRACK

 Something important in Doom’s helicopter explodes as Widow and Hawkeye come out, striding to the other Avengers; neither look very happy. Falcon lands near Bruce, retracting his wings. Vision is on the ground as well, taking his stance on Iron Man’s right.

 Widow holds out the zip drive for Iron Man to store in one of his many handy compartments, “we’ve got his last known location, recorded seven hours ago.” She looks carefully optimistic, “specs of the compound, some passwords, but we’ll need you to crack the rest of the encryption if we’re going to get any more than that.”

 “Can do.” He’s itching to get the zip drive plugged in, to start triangulating and cracking code to get more deets on the nut-jobs. He can do it while Clint’s flying and Nat’s in the co-pilot… And dammit if they aren’t all looking at him expectantly again, waiting for him to come up with something off the fly. The mechanical sigh sounds strange, even to him.

 “Okay, then. Until I get this data hacked, here’s what we’re going to do…”

_To Be Continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t hate me. Just, no. I like the ‘tag, you’re it’ hierarchy. Fun times. And, a special thank-you to Thor for wrecking shit. Really, why has no one tried a giant magnet with Doom? What's up with that? On another note, do you really need a spleen to live?


	15. Running: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this TWICE before this posting. Both times, things happened, annnd it got erased or I would have had it up sooner. I'm not very happy with how it came out this time, but it is what it is.

Tony’s parting words to a highly pissed-off Viktor Von Doom (who is wading his way through the parts and pieces of his stupid bots), “Heavy Metal! Next time you’re in New York, you _may_ want to steer clear of Avenger’s Tower. I mean, Thor already doesn’t like you.”

 Then the Quinjet’s thrusters kick into high gear, the blow back throwing bits and pieces of destroyed bots around the desolate landscape. Doom falls on his metal ass. It’s the _best_ ever.

SSARAS would be there to pick him up before he even made the Latverian border so that pacified the team somewhat as Tony sat in the back of the jet with Bruce to work furiously on the pilfered data.  Clint and Nat take the controls to allow the two scientists time to work. Iron Man helmet off and gauntleted fingers running over the holograms, Tony’s eyes constantly move as he works to keep from thinking about what tortures Steve might be going through.  On the station across from him, Bruce is running another set of holograms, albeit a slower pace, but his focus is narrow, automatically bracing his feet with the flight patterns. He’s Bruce, so meticulous, making sure to miss nothing—there won’t be another instance where his inattention causes a catastrophe (or so the scientist admitted to Nat one time). The others are trying to talk as quietly as possible as to not disturb the hacking process but watching the two work is fascinating; they move in an unconscious sync with one another. Outside the jet, Vision, Thor, and War Machine flank the jet on three sides, comms on to add to the conversations and strategies as data is uncovered.

 “They’re trying to crack some super soldier goodness,” from Clint while he banks, skimming over rock. “That’s why they needed Cap alive.”

“I’ve got some people looking into their files,” Rhoades adjusts to follow the jet, “far as I know, Ross was court martialed for the last big debacle in Yazoo City. Seventy-five casualties when one of his ‘trials’ went the wrong way.”

“This General Ross attempted to make another creature similar to our Hulk?” Thor squints against the wind, hammer held aloft as he skims air currents.

Bruce smiles in the middle of his hacking, _our_ Hulk.

“He wanted a more manageable solution,” Nat returns, “Fury cut ties with him after he consented to human trials without really testing the serum they came up with…it proved fatal to the test subjects.”

“That’s inhuman,” Wanda shudders delicately, “just like the Baron, his morality has been corrupted.”

“That’s desperation,” Clint returns, “he needed results to keep the project going. That’s what he was after.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tony interjects, still working the code, “we’re taking them down and getting Cap back.”

“Absolutely,” Vision agrees, “there is little doubt we shall be able to combat whatever they have done to negate the serum.”

“We have enough egg heads to make it happen,” Rhoades seconds, “besides, Reed Richards owes me about a dozen favors, so we can always get one more in the mix.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Tony snipes, “you know I can’t stand that guy.”

“You’d put up with him for Steve’s sake,” Nat snipes back.

“…Yeah, I guess I would.”

 “Ha! All right, gang, we’ve got blueprints.” Bruce finally cracks the last line of code to display the multi-level, underground bunker, exists and entrances clearly marked by the helpful Doom. As the supervillain world had apparently figured out, bad guys just shouldn’t trust bad guys, no matter how _bad_ they were together or had the same goals or the same yoga instructor, or whatever they did, so Doom had taken the time to map out the longitude and latitude of the underground bunker. Tony’s eyes flicker to him as Nat glances back and takes off the head set, unbuckles from the co-pilot’s chair.

 Eyes raking over the details, Bruce smirks as she comes beside him, watches him manipulate the hologram to the main entrance, so helpfully marked. “You know, Doom took some pretty extensive time to code all the details of the bunker he wasn’t supposed to _know_ about.”

 Nat smiles back at him with a raised brow, “don’t you love when they make our job easier?”

 “Always inspiring,” his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins down at her, and…Nat almost gasps at how handsome he is right at that moment, relaxed and brilliant, hopeful and…

 She turns back to the schematics, forces herself to calm down.

 Thankfully, Tony throws in, “security protocols over here!”

 Stark holds his StarkPad out and flicks it, integrating a new level of color and information to Bruce’s hologram.  He looks over Nat’s head and starts pointing out the interesting spots, taking in the coded blast doors, guard towers, waving at Wanda to gather around them. For the fliers outside the jet, Tony starts up a monologue to describe the compound from top floor to the three underground levels. Tony reaches over the make Bruce’s schematic larger.

 Finally, Widow shakes her head, “this does not look promising,” eyes reviewing the plans while thinking about the best possible infiltration.

 “Nope. We’ll have to split up since there’s apparently three labs and two holding cells. We can’t assume which one Cap is in, not to mention what they might do to him the moment they know we’re inside.” Tony’s eyes narrow, “it’s going to be impossible to do the stealth thing with all of us. I mean, red and gold suit does not spell ‘undercover.’”

 “Gee, and I thought you made it with stealth mode,” Rhoadey inserts dryly.

“Not this model, maybe I’ll try it for the next. Working with the material is a bitch.”

There’s a laugh from Thor, “you and your ‘style’ Tony are vastly entertaining.”

“Aw, thanks Hammer Time. See? I knew you loved me, don’t try to hide it. I’ve just got an animal magnetism everyone digs.”

Wanda takes an obvious step to the left, away from Tony, and he balks at her while Bruce chuckles.

“Ew, just ew,” Clint deadpans. “All right, so we’ve got to get in. Where does the vent system starts from the outside?”

“Cliffside looks like, but no. Just no, Birdy. We go in together.”

Nat’s expression clears, “Hawkeye and I—“

“No,” both scientists veto in unison, surprising her by the way she draws back an inch or so and blinks at them owlishly.

“You two aren’t going in there alone, recon or not,” Tony snaps, “there is no ‘spies like us’ in ‘team.’”

“It’s good strategy, Stark,” she counters more gently than she means. She doesn’t say _Steve would understand that_.

“Don’t care. You shouldn’t have voted to put me in charge. We go in _together_.”

 It annoys the Widow, but Nat’s eyes soften a little; she turns back to the hologram. “Fine. We’ll need a distraction, something to knock out their communications and security systems before we even get close. What’s the plan, Iron Man?”

The comms are silent, waiting for Tony, who’s brows are furrowed while he thinks.

 Finally, a grin. “We’re going to do this the fun way.” He flicks a metal finger and another hologram expands, showing a list of networks. His brow arches at her, and Natasha starts to laugh. “Well, now that we’ve got a real plan, like _a real plan_ , we work it out. Isn’t that nice? Cap’s gonna be so proud.” He winks at Bruce to cover up the ‘what if’s’ hovering on the edge of his consciousness.

*****

Again, he’s struggling to breathe. There’s a weight on his chest, like the Hulk is sitting there trying to get him to cry uncle or something…his mind isn’t working right. They’ve figured out how to do something to him, he’s restrained, vision blurry when he can open his eyes. Too weak to fight, it’s disconcerting in his half-aware state that he can’t even get his arms free, that the others will be looking for him, riding to his rescue when they shouldn’t have to risk themselves for him. He should have been dead a long time ago, never should have survived the ice, never should have crashed the plane and just _stayed_. He should have tried to get out, stop the Nazis and then…

 “His vitals are falling,”

_I hope I die, you sons of bitches._

“Get him back to standard. We aren’t done with him yet.”

“Sir, the cocktail might kill him.”

“Stryker, he’s a _national icon_ for Christ’s sake. You can’t just kill him.”

“He’s the means to an end, Ross. Have you forgotten?  The secret is with him and that’s what we need.”

“He dies and any chance we have of getting rank back is going out the window.”

“Don’t be naïve, Ross. Any chance we had is long gone.”

“Not if we can control the Hulk. Not if we can make an army of Captain Americas. We’ll get full pardons.”

“To get the serum, he might have to die, Ross. Pull out your backbone and get ready to do what we have to do.”

“You, don’t stop the feed, we don’t him at full power until we have what we need, then he can die. Keep him alive until then.”

 

 _Fuck you_. His ma would be rolling over in her grave. Tony would be laughing his ass off.

 

Something rumbles, as the agony strikes him again, making him grit his teeth against crying out. Then scrambling, people talking, the click of computer keys in rapid fire…

 

_Never gonna give you up,_

_Never gonna let you down_

_Never gonna run around and desert you_

_Never gonna make you cry_

_Never gonna say good-bye_

_Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you_

 

“What in the hell is that?! Why are the cameras down? REPORT!”

 

_Never gonna give you up,_

_Never gonna let you down_

_Never gonna run around and desert you_

_Never gonna make you cry_

_Never gonna say good-bye_

_Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you_

 

“We’re being Rick-rolled, sir.” The amusement is somewhat obvious but Steve can’t be bothered to open his eyes to see who is giving these jerks lip. “Looks like someone very good with security systems hacked us. I can’t get any live feeds. We’re down, we’ve got nothing.”

_Wish Tony was here. I get that reference…_

 

“What in the hell does that even mean?! Get us back up and running ASAP.”

Quietly, the two have moved closer to the alcove, “They’ve found us, Stryker. It has to be them or SHIELD.”

“There is no more SHIELD, Ross, you know that. Fury is dead.”

“You know better than that. Regardless, they’ve got to be on their way, and they’ll have every resource with them.”

“Stark. Stark hacked us.”

“Probably. But, he’s going to have Banner.”

“Damn. We’ll start lockdown protocol, start exporting the data we’ve got so far.”

“We should move him, now. We’ll never get this chance again.”

“Sirs! We’ve lost power to deck 1 and 2.”

 

_Never gonna give you up,_

_Never gonna let you down_

_Never gonna run around and desert you_

_Never gonna make you cry_

_Never gonna say good-bye_

_Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you_

 

The table he’s strapped to shakes hard again, almost rolling across the floor with the force; something makes his useless head flop back and forth.

“Dammit, we’re partially down. Report!”

“…we’ve got nothing, now, Sir. We’re trying to get back online but the hacker is re-coding _everything_.”

“Ross, get your people—“

“My people are topside, Stryker, and communications are down.” The other snipes with a harsh edge. “Dammit. We should have had more time.”

“Doom, they got to Doom, that bastard.”

“Too late to cry about it. You! Take twenty of our best and get them topside, find out the sitrep—“

_They’re here._ Steve’s heart stutters in fear. They must have something for everyone. Of course, they’d have plans on plans for everyone on the team. They’d slaughter…

Pain again. Pain like the kind that used to paralyze him when he was just a little guy.

“Sir! He’s going into cardiac arrest.” The voices are wavery, going in and out.

“Shit! He’s crashing, get the cart!”

_Good, I hope they tear this place up…_

**

A majority of the militia are just sitting around with dazed expressions, looking heavily drugged as costumed people run by them, weapons out. A few of the soldiers have some realization to know they should be shouting alarms, attacking, doing something other than sit and watch the play of red dancing in front of their eyes. None of them can bring themselves to stand or even care that much about the intruders (easily recognizable) or answer the frantic communications demanding a play by play. The red mist is the most important thing right now, the thing they need to pay attention to anyway. It swirls, dances, fogs, and is the most wonderful thing _ever_.

 The dull thuds of Iron Man’s steps resound along the sterile complex, one that has some outdated security protocols these stupid asshats made up for with manpower. Poor planning, shitty tech, and if there’s one thing he absolutely _hates_ , it’s terrible tech. He has some kind of Jedi mind power when it comes to these kinds of things (not to mention that J.J. and Vision told him with no less disgust that these guys are running _Windows_ servers, Windows 2003 servers at that. Why not just use McAfee, huh? Evildoers are just getting so _lazy_ nowadays).

 Along with the data Rhoadey came up with from his contacts in _everywhere_ (CIA, NSA, WSC, whatever) on the flight here, they had the most up-to-date intel on ex-General William Stryker and ex-General Thaddeus Ross; apparently, both Generals were court martialed after some of their more unconscionable actions on their respective Bio-Tech Enhancement Project (Ross shortly after Tony met him in a bar after Bruce escaped; that was the _last_ time Tony did Fury a favor…well, other than joining the damn initiative and making weapons and…).

 The bonus: both were actively being sought after by the US government and Rhoadey seemed all for taking them in.  That means more US support on the way. Also meant someone else is footing the bill for trying to find out the super soldier serum if the compound and mass of mercenaries are anything to go by, without the armed forces budget, the two Generals were getting money and resources from _somewhere_. After Cap was safe, the next step is going to be finding out the big _who_. 

 To help along with that, Vision is going for the computer room to tap into the network and servers. Priority one is to find the compound they used on Steve as well as any results they may have already catalogued; priority two, Tony wants to know who funded this little adventure in _fuck-land_ and put these two in contact.  _Cap first_. _Bad guys next_ , but a part of Tony hopes, since he’s been a good boy this year, that Santa will make sure both Generals are in this room, ready to get a face full of repulsor blasts and metal punches because _that_ is sooo on his wish list this year.

 Widow and Sam have re-joined him, finding nothing on the first two floors; no Cap, not extensive biometrical testing. The labs are surprisingly lacking of huge hulking/mutant experiments. Either the labs are back-ups for some other installation where main testing may be happening or the subjects have already been moved elsewhere. Either way, they were going to be found out; there’s no way Ross and Stryker had better IT guys than Vision and J.J.

 “So, are we trying to piss them off _before_ we get Cap?” War Machine comes over comms, “because blowing shit up seemed to piss them off.” An explosion in the background makes his point.

 "Don’t bring the whole thing down on us and you’re good. Looks like they’ve got some IT people that are trying to get weapons back on-line. Keep your eyes open.”

 “Copy.”

 Widow and Sam aim down the long corridor, protecting sides, waiting for the next round of possible attacks since Witch, with Thor guarding her back in the eventual case of _shit, shit, they’re on to us,_ is probably going through the fight of her lifetime trying to keep a hundred minds or more under her ‘chill out’ spell.  Bruce is breathing hard, nudged between the two fighters, running as well to keep himself moving and the other guy under wraps. Understandable, labs and creepy sterile environments made the big guy nervous. Rhoadey is playing distraction/decoy and waiting for SSARS forces to come in and start taking prisoners.

 Both hands out with repulsors ready; third lab is the charm, but he’s more cautious than normal, looking up at the security camera and sensors installed down the corridor; the Generals only needed _one_ working system on the network and J.J. is keeping them from getting it because something about the situation eats away at Tony.  Coincidences like this just aren’t feasible, and he’s absurdly glad he sent Clint is in the vents, heading to the main station to take out some security tech and get any records or vid feeds he could manage. Then, well, if the good ex-Generals aren’t anywhere in the vicinity, Hawkeyes was going to _find_ them. Still, something is nagging him, but they’re out of time if Cap’s still kicking it.

 “Almost,” Widow whispers through the comm, holding her guns down by either side and counting each corridor in meters. “The main lab should be…” she slides to an easy stop before the doorframe, double doors with a security pad and card swiping mechanism. Before he realizes, he’s taken her upper arm and pulls her back, taking point in front of her; his brain didn’t hesitate on that one. Both hands light up with pending repulsor blasts and he ignores the very _irritated_ look on her face before blowing the lab doors in and rushing inside.

 ***

“Nobody move, this is a hold-up,” hands glowing, Tony fires a low-grade shot into one of the empty workstations to make his point to the milling medical personnel and gun toting soldiers that are apparently not on the Witches’ watch-list.

 To keep casualties at a minimum, his shots are rapid fire, taking the gun-wielders out quickly since they can’t afford to put any of the medical staff down until there are a whole lot of answers in the air. Behind him, Falcon, Widow, and Banner are moving through the lab, searching, holding weapons at the lab-coated medics that are throwing hands in the air or already hitting their knees to give up. _Well, isn’t that nice?_ He likes when the bad guys just _give up_ without a fight, much cleaner.

 His eyes move over every nook and cranny while the HUD spits out readings to compensate for what he can’t see. The end-all result, they’ve found it since there’s a whole _helluva lot_ of biotech running, systems spitting out complex equations, running analysis. A centrifuge is spinning with vials of blood, and he doesn’t have to venture a guess on who’s blood they’re testing; other than association, identification, he’s come to the end of his usefulness.  All the organic stuff is Bruce’s playground, and Tony is absurdly grateful he insisted Code Green for super-duper emergencies only because he would truly be fucked to figure out the intense data on every screen.

 The first round of checking, however, doesn’t include Cap, no visual yet and the lack of ‘ta-da’ is making all of them incredibly antsy. Bruce is already at one of the workstations, eyes moving over complex formulas and algorithms trying to piece together whatever they must have found. Widow and Falcon are following his lead, weapons ready and working to the back of the lab, moving around huge equipment, work benches, and the like. They don’t see the Star Spangled Man with a Plan either, so it’s time to get a little cooperation.

 “Okay folks, we’re the Avengers. How’s it going? Long workday? Maybe you guys should have a Pizza Wednesday or something, right? Break up the monotony of the week.” He’s moving, circling with hands out to try corralling everyone away from computers, alarms, and other equipment, get the closer to a wall where he can see the ten or so scientists. “Hope you’ve been taking care of our resident veteran because, you know, we _really_ like him, even with all the ‘back in my day’ stories.” The lights in his palms flare for effect, “cause if he’s not okay, then some of you are probably not going to be okay either.”

 A woman with thick glasses and hands raised to shoulder level immediately points to one of the walls, her eyes watery and afraid. Tony files her response away for later and motions for Falcon to move; holding his automatics out, ready for a gunfight, the ex-paratrooper strafes across the linoleum quickly. A few quick presses (and _please be a secret door, please be a secret door)_ , Falcon finds the weak spots, hollow sounds; the trigger hits and the wall splits, opening up for them ( _yay!)_. Falcon’s eyes widen, the small figure on a metal table, hooked up to machines and IVs, fluids drained out of him while others being pumped in.

 “God have mercy. Cap,” Sam Wilson looks down at his friend, horrified. “Doc! Can definitely use your skills right about now!”

 Bruce is already immersed in calculations, tests, and results, the implications bringing him back to the initial accident when the Other Guy made his first appearance. The breakdown to the cellular level is the same theorem he used, modified to account for gamma radiation, but it won’t work if they’re really trying to crack the secret to Erskine’s baby. At least, they have some good news there; he would just need to dig deeper and see what other method they’ve been using. This is all him since Tony isn’t the ‘organic’ guy and Vision didn’t have enough specs on the human body to be of more help than to work the tried-and-true formulas. So, getting his head together and ignoring the _horrific_ accident that made him an ‘enormous green rage monster’ should be easier…

 The door sliding open under Falcon’s hand has the doctor up and moving, anxiety and fear bubbling up, but Bruce Banner spent months, _years_ roving across third-world countries, fighting to give people another chance. He’s kept his calm with blood and gore up to the elbows, when looking down on a tiny, emaciated face dazed with pain, when setting broken bones made by a parent’s anger and frustration.  He prepares himself for what the bastards could have done.  His chest hurts with the implications, mind working with every scenario and wondering if he had the equipment he’d need to find a cure or even keep Cap alive dependent on what—.  

 Bruce visibly starts. Lying on the table, the little guy is easily recognizable from old black and white photos from Project Rebirth; so, the intel is right, he’d _prepared_ himself to see the smaller version up close, but the breath still wooshes out.

 The only thing covered the nearly emaciated body is a pair of briefs and shackles that cause bruising around thin wrists and ankles; as pale as Steve is, the extensive bruising and other contusions over his arms, chest, and legs stands out starkly in gross purple, black, and blue. The bastards didn’t even have the courtesy to clean the blood off his forehead, knuckles, or arms, dried and flaking off.  Falcon is hovering over the unconscious man, hands not touching and face grim as he stares down at what has obviously been a one-sided fight after they managed to negate the serum.

 “Cap? Cap, it’s Sam. We’re here. The Avengers are _here_ , just hold on, okay?”

 The other guy is growling, pacing, smacking his fists around, but Bruce has to steady himself and remind the Hulk that Steve _needed_ a doctor above all else right now.

 “All right, let me in there,” He is already taking off the backpack, shoving it at Falcon.

 “Steve? Steve, I hope you can hear me and they haven’t put you into a medically induced coma,” his eyes scan the multitude of tubes in both arms and the vein in Steve’s neck, move to the labels on each IV bags, just a jumble of formulas, and not even a comprehensive name. “I’m here, Tony and Nat, too. The rest are keeping the bad guys busy, so it’s okay.”

 He recognizes the saline solution, combination for a high dose antibiotic, and some kind of inhibitor from the looks of it, probably the serum-blocker, maybe? If they knew the extents of Steve’s medical problems before the serum, they would have some kind of plan to keep him from dying, wouldn’t they? Suddenly, there are too many factors for him to safely start removing IV lines, who knew what it would do? Throw Steve into a grand mal? Be the catalyst for his organs to start shutting down?  There’s no obvious charts, no workstation close to the table, and…the crash cart by Steve’s head has obviously been used, maybe multiple times.

 “Doc?” Falcon’s voice is wavering at whatever look Bruce has on his face.

 The implications of everything he’s seen so far aren’t good, but he needs more data, needs to know what they’re using to counteract the breakdown of Steve’s body the with the serum-blocker. Straightening, Bruce gently squeezes Steve’s bicep.

 “Doc?” Falcon says again, more urgently.

“Stay with him, talk to him,” Bruce sighs through his nose, telling the other guy to calm the hell down. “I’ll be right back.”

Falcon takes up Bruce’s space and keeps talking.

 The Iron Man helmet swings around, noting Banner is clenching his fists, arms shaking slightly with strain. He and Widow step back to hear what the Doc has to say, speaking low between themselves.

 “It’s not good,” Bruce gives them both the eye while weapons stay trained and the gun toting militants have been bound, left on the floor. “There’s so many compounds… I need more information.”

 “You’ll get it,” the Widow promises, turning fully to face the group of terrified medical personnel. She pointedly twirls one of her Widow bite sticks in hand, blue sparks created in the wake, causing several to flinch. She already maps out the weakest, most squeamish, planning a variety of torture protocols. She’s one of those people that just doesn’t care for the Geneva Convention. Go figure.

 “I got this,” Tony’s mechanized voice isn’t showing his anger and hey, wasn’t that just great.  He moves to the huddled group, “All right whiz kids, you have approximately two minutes,” two metal fingers emphasize the point, “to _tell us everything_ you did to Captain America before I let the Black Widow loose on your asses. No holds barred.” 

 Widow’s lip curls in a heated smile, one that looks vaguely psychotic, like she would soooo _enjoy_ a few minutes of play time. He didn’t expect Bruce to give a grunt behind him and the helmet swings just slightly over one shoulder, “oh, and that’s Dr. Banner behind me.” His thumb hitches over his right shoulder, “You know, the Hulk? Lying _really_ make him angry. Of course, he has a really nasty hobby of grinding bones into paste because why not?  Pain in the ass to clean out of carpet, but who am I to judge—?”

“It’s only temporary,” the same young woman interrupts. Rude, he was just getting started with the whole threatening their lives and everything. “I…we don’t know where they got the anti-serum, but he made us keep the intravenous feed steady. He—The Captain, he crashed twice.” Her voice wavers slightly, “we don’t know what’ll happen if you take it out b-because it’s not _stable_ with the mutation the Vita-Rays caused.  We, we all _tried_ — but they know where my sons are. They can find my boys.  _Please_ , they’re all I’ve got.”

  _Shit, hostages_. Bruce and Nat exchange a glance and it’s all Tony needs to know; he holds up both hands in an ‘okay, not so dangerous right this moment’ manner.

 “Right now, we’ve got evac on the way, so we’re all going to stay calm, right? Right. Good plan. In the meantime, I need any of you in on the details to show Dr. Banner everything,” Tony motions her over with one glowing hand. Widow follows her with the barrel of both guns; he realizes how serious she is by her fingers on the trigger, not on the side of the trigger guard.

 “So, as for the rest of you, show of hands, who’s up for Twenty Questions?”

***

Thor’s fist makes a meaty sound when he hits flesh, and for a moment, the god forgets his strength enough to watch the evil man fly back into the opposing wall, jaw obviously broken as he slumps down without nary more fight within him. But for a moment, he has a slight regret on being overly harsh with a mortal (albeit an evil one), yet satisfaction wins out; the loud mouth should not have spoken of slitting the Witches’ throat, for he must not have realized whom he would be facing. T ’was his mistake.

 With a calculated growl, Thor turns on the others that have joined the onslaught; he bares his teeth at them with savage hope that they _would_ make the pathetic attempt. He only calls for sparks to dance from his fingertips to shoulders since Tony is definitely a fan of ‘style’ and keeps telling him to ‘step up his game face’ or some such nonsense. Clint seems to agree.

 “Please,” he sneers at them, face illuminated, “ _please_ **do** try your hand. Let us see what the Fates have in store.”

 Heads turn to their compatriot, passed out against the wall, and the others seem to swiftly change their minds about challenging him. The four slowly raise their hands and sink down to kneel, tossing their human weapons out in front of them. It is a smart move, nor does he hesitate in allowing them their surrender.

Thor straightens slowly, eyes a glowing blue. His first priority is to defend Wanda while she taxes herself almost to the point of agony, and he shall do so. _None_ shall lay a hand on his shield sister, or they will have a first taste of his wrath (and this, defending her, fighting to save the Captain, flying shoulder to shoulder with Vision and War Machine, these _things_ are familiar and soothing, overwriting his nightmares). He will not fail them.

He chances a glance over his shoulder where she is visibly trembling all over, sprawled over the floor with hands buried in her hair; she is expanding too much of her power to control as many minds as she possibly can. He feels oddly powerless in the face of her suffering and strain yet the god maintains his protective stance before her. He now understands why Iron Man had set him here rather than to battle elsewhere. Should she lose control of the many minds in the building, they would come for her, and she would be no match for the multitude.  She would depend upon his strength.  However, he can feel her waves of power splintering for there are many in this compound and hesitates a moment before tapping the small device in his ear, hoping everyone can hear him.

“Brethren, Sister, our Witch will be in need of assistance soon. What news of the Captain and our departure?” He hefts his hammer up, prowling back and forth in front of the four staring at him.

In a breath, Tony voice is calmer than Thor expects, “the doctors down here are playing nice, so we’re gathering data. Cap is still down, but Doc is working on it. How are we coming on reinforcements, Honey-Bear?”

“I’ve got forces coming in hot, less than fifteen.” War Machine’s voice is slightly distorted, like he’s taken some hits trying to keep up the outside distraction. “Can we hold out until then?”

“Gonna try like hell,” Iron Man replies. “What about the big bads? Hawkeye?”

“Following,” is the whispered echo, Clint in the vents watching to see what other surprises might be in store for the team.

“Oh yeah, we definitely want a _word_ with Ross,” Bruce grinds out and his breath is shaky over the line.

“Shit, Bruce, keep it together.  Big Guy, you can come play if Witch is starting to get a headache, okay?”

Thor’s chest spikes with fear for a moment, but a deep sigh through the comm is unmistakable. “All right folks, nothing to see here; we’ll check back with you guys when the Cap is awake.”

“Aye, Doctor, please let us know when he wakes. Thor out.” With a breath, the god turns his eyes back to the men that collaborated with the Captain’s kidnappers. “In the meanwhile,” he crouches a little, settling Mjölnir by his foot, “you _will_ tell me everything the Generals have planned for this ‘super’ formula. Odin save you should I think you lie.”

**

Something being pulled out of his arm makes some of the pain ease, and he struggles against the darkness again.

“What is this one?’

“The antibiotic. His body started failing almost immediately after he was brought here.”

 

_So cold.  The water rushing into the cockpit is frigid; the rush hits him like a brick. There’s no way to swim against the current, no matter how enhanced he is, especially now with the whole plane under and sinking fast. But s’okay because Bucky had to be scared when he fell, right? He must have been terrified in the seconds before the final impact. At least Steve isn’t scared, not at all. All he has to do is go on to sleep, just lay back in the water and let himself be tired…_

 

Coming to consciousness this time is abrupt, immediate. His senses, unhindered, are online in a sharp contrast to the drugged haze. He feels more like himself when he catches the sound of movement, feels the shadow over him, and the blur finally lets up enough that he can see the downturn of Bruce’s mouth. Relief is so startling he has to get his breath because if Bruce is here, then Nat’s is too. Maybe Clint and Wanda, Rhoadey if he wasn’t in D.C…

 “Fancy meeting you here, fella.” One brow wiggles when the doc’s head snaps down to look at him. “Bet you come to all the good parties.”

 “Jesus, Steve. Thank God you’re awake.” Banner squeezes his arm; he can feel it, but something is off. Still, he’s happy enough to see the doc that he can grin without wincing.

 “Glad…to see you, too. That General of yours, he’s kind of an ass. Thought I should tell you…didn’t make it back to the Tower in time.”

 Bruce’s eyes are noticeably less green with the joke, and the doctor has to laugh a little. “You’re telling me. Ross is a Grade-A bastard, tested and everything.” His expression goes somber, eyes raking over Steve, “if I help you, can you sit up?”

  _Help_? Steve’s brow furrows and Bruce slides an arm under his shoulders to help him do just that. With a bewildered blink down at himself, he then realizes what the heck is going on…

 “Hell,” Captain America spits out, holding up a bruised hand for inspection, his eyes narrowing. “What did they do, Bruce?” His voice is carefully empty while he’s caught between disbelief, anger, and fear. Luckily, he’s got Bruce and Tony on his side, so they can figure this out, right? _Right?_

 The Doctor’s lips thin out in a frown, “from what we’ve gathered, the Generals pumped you full of a temporary anti-serum compound to be able to take samples of your blood and tissue while keeping you incapacitated.” He starts digging around in a backpack, pulling out the survival blanket, t-shirt, and sweats for the much smaller man. “The Super Soldier program is apparently back in vogue, Steve.”

  _What?_ The Captain straightens and Bruce tucks the blanket around him, “Can they do it, Bruce? Even when I’m like _this_?” His trembling hand waves down his body. “Or have they already got it down?”

 The hesitation isn’t a good sign. “The serum is still in your blood and bone marrow, Captain. They attempted to isolate it from the repressive strain but haven’t been able to thus far, or as far as we can tell from the files we’ve accessed.”  Bruce glances through the secret door at the captive scientists and Iron Man standing near one of the workstations, collaborating with Vision on the upper floor’s main research storage room. J.J. and Vision are running through all the files on site trying to find more answers than they have right now.

 Iron Man looks back and the suit seems to slump in relief (odd but true); he keeps an eye out but moves to the pseudo-medical room while Falcon and Widow keep up with the Q&A. As they’ve learned, the majority of the scientists aren’t just willing employees looking for a paycheck (especially to screw over a one Captain America), so the majority gave up everything they knew. 

 “So far, that’s affirmative, Cap. They’ve got about nada and zilch in the way of figuring the compound out. But, it’s good to see you’ve had a nice little vacay, you know. I was hoping you’d be sipping mai-tais on the beach somewhere, but trust you to choose spooky sciencey labs instead.” The metal fingers raise to wiggle close to Steve’s face in a ‘scary’ motion.

 The effect is what he was trying for since the skinny guy almost choked on a laugh, accepting the bottle of water Bruce dug out of the backpack. “Gotta do something to keep you guys on your toes, Iron Man. Nice to see you out and about in the suit and all.” Blue eyes blinked up at Tony from the same yet different face, the grin the same rueful smile.  He takes a drink and straightens, moving his neck to get a small _crack_ for the effort.

 “All right, get me a comm. What the sitrep?” He caps the bottle and starts looking at his surroundings uninhibited for the first time.

 Falcon huffs without looking at him from pacing by the door, “take it easy, Cap. We’ve got back-up on the way and Witch is keeping a majority of these nice insurgents busy.”

 Those blue eyes narrow, no less powerful than when he’s a hulking bigger guy. He crosses his arms over his chest in the same way, “Widow.” Not even a question.

 The red head doesn’t look at him from her position with the kidnapped scientists, just throws her head back with a long-suffering sigh. “I swear, between you, Hawkeye, and Stark, I’m going to start getting grey.”

 “It would look distinguished,” he soothes, holding out a hand. Everyone ignores the stick thin and bruised his wrist or the red, swollen track marks on the arm. Blowing a breath out, she grudgingly digs an extra comm unit from her side pocket (since Clint is always losing his anyway) and strides over the slap it in his palm.

 “How do you _say_ things like that without getting _the look_?” Bruce demands, hands moving over the computerized equipment for another few seconds then mutters _last one_ to himself.  

 Steve obligingly tilts his chin up so the doctor can start pulling the last IV out of the side artery in his neck, immediately pressing a cotton ball then taping a small gauze pad over it.

 Steve sighs now all the tube are out of him and fits the comm in his ear, “she likes me the best, that’s all.” He makes a move to shift his legs off the table, ready to get up and get _moving_. He taps the comm, “Avengers. Status?”

 Before he could scoot, Bruce arm bars him from standing, a shake of his head and eyes narrow behind his glasses. Steve quirks a grin, still not scared of the Hulk even as a little guy. Instead, Bruce shoves the shirt at him.

 

“Captain!” Relief bleeds through Thor’s tone, and Steve’s brow arches. Apparently both his sidelined fellas signed back up for active duty. “Good fortune shines upon us this day.”

“Hey Thor, good to hear you. How are you holding up?”

“Very well, Captain. I have not allowed any trespassers close to the Scarlet Witch whilst she controls the majority of our foes. She is, however, beginning to tire substantially. The sooner we can get out, the better.”

“How bad, Thor? Can she talk to you? Give any kind of signal?” He’s already planning how to get Thor to blow a hole wherever they are and get Wanda out of there if need be.

“In that case, I’ve got good news on top of good news then. We’ve got touchdown. Our people are organizing as we speak.” Rhoadey’s grin is so wide, it’s almost audible. “Never so glad to hear from you, Cap.”

“Nice to be heard, War Marchine. We got agents ringing the doorbell? Someone there to let ‘em in? How about you, V, can you give our people nice invitations?”

“Would you prefer it engraved, Captain?” The life form sounds more fond than normal.

“Only the very best.” Regardless of the situation, Steve grins a little. Finally, his mind is catching up and getting clearer now that he wasn’t faced with the drugs pumped into him. Still, he needed schematics, needed to know where they were, how far to the surface, how bad Wanda really is and where.

“Captain, the Witches states she is well enough to maintain control, but that is all she spoke.” _Damn_ , _Thor doesn’t usually sound worried._

 “Honey-Bear, is the cavalry ready to start taking prisoners?” Iron Man’s faceplate slides up and he pulls the specialized StarkTab from Bruce’s backpack. With a flick, he throws the hologram in front of Steve, pointing to their location. “If so, Witch can start moving people up to the top floor, get ‘em right in sight, tied up with a bow for Hill’s people to start the bad guy round-up.”

 “I’m with Hill now. They’ve got detainment ready, start the casting calls.”

“All right, Thor, see if Witch is up to the challenge.” Steve’s eyes go from the schematic to Tony. “May need you and Falcon to run recon for stragglers once the main body is out, War Machine.”

“Say the word, Cap.”

“All right, stand-by.”

He pauses as the shirt comes down over his head and releases the comm in favor of Bruce’s no-nonsense type of coddling, which includes opening the water bottle and shoving it back in Steve’s hands once the smaller guy fumbles to get his hands through the right holes. His glare doesn’t faze Bruce in the slightest.

 ****

 “This…this isn’t great, but better than I expected,” Bruce mumbles to himself, adjusting the microscope minutely, glasses perched in his hair. He darts back to the workstation computer, eyes moving as he calculates and works in the previous results with his own.

 “So, good news I hope?” Steve’s voice is distracted, but Bruce has known the guy for more than a day and is sure there’s underlying tension even if he’s pushing himself (like an idiot, Tony must be so proud) and still working. Sitting across the workstation table, he’s eating one of the protein bars while working on the StarkTab to map out alternate routes to the only escape hatch. Luckily, J.J. is reading biometric signatures and feeding them into the hologram so numerous tiny lights are moving steadily closer to the door.

 Falcon has already hearded the medical/science personnel into a storage room (in case they might not _all_ be hostages) to be locked in while Widow and Iron Man laid out the gunmen in the adjoining room, one that was refrigerated (because of _reasons_ Tony had asserted with a grin).  

 “Possibly, well a 78% chance of good news.” Bruce turns back to the workstation where the numbers from the serum-blocker are running. As he suspected, there is a marked breakdown, a significant failure of the compound.

 “I like those odds,” Tony replies, the armor on sentry mode sweeps back and forth with repulsors ready.

“Did you—“

Tony holds up the print outs, “yes. These are the most updated files, last saved two hours ago by our wonderful baddies. Stryker was cross-referencing that last subject of some project he had on another server. V is working to crack it.”

Bruce sighs as the numbers look even better. “Okay, looks like we’ve got a max shelf life of 72 hours. Steve’s last blood sample shows his cells have already started fighting off the effects. I think using Vita raise the first time around is what gave the serum its’ true concentration.” He chews on his lower lip, “if we had something to simulate something _close_ , we could negate the effects faster, but…”

“Vita Raise is like finding a white elephant,” Tony finishes, running a hand through his messy hair, “can we chance…?”

“No,” Bruce snaps immediately, “who knows what effect gamma could have on the Captain. I won’t even consider it.”

At that, Steve’s blue eyes flip up to the conversation, “agreed. 72 hours, Doc? I can wait it out.”

Both scientists sigh.

 “It might not be that simple, Steve.” Bruce rubs his eyes, “I need my equipment to be sure, to do more testing, but who knows what happens at the seventy-two hour mark?  We have no assurances your body as is can take the _stress_. You might go back into cardiac arrest, stroke out, have the mother of all grand mals, or who knows what else. I just don’t _know_. The anti-serum will break down in your system, that’s as much as I know right now.”

Not even ruffled, the smaller Captain America just regards Bruce with calm eyes, the same look when he’s assessing any situation the Avengers might find themselves in, “at this point, I’ll take what I can get. You’ve done great, Bruce.”

The doctor’s eyes flicker away.

“I mean it, Bruce. No one else would have come close to the answer, and you’ll figure out what else from there. It’s going to be all right. Things have a way of working themselves out.”

“They will, and Thank God we’ve got the guy who’s ‘not that kind of doctor.’ Epic work, Brucie-Bear, ScienceBros for the win,” Tony interrupts to take some of the gravity and those pesky ‘what if’s?’ out of the equation for a few moments. “So, we make sure the back-up plan accounts for what we _don’t_ know yet; get Cap back to the Tower so Bruce can work out more details, and keep medical on the Communal Floor for just in case. No unnecessary chances.”

Bruce blows out a breath and regards both team mates, “sounds like a plan.”

 The armor twitches abruptly and leaves its’ post and stalks jerkily to the creator, the face plate lifts to the empty shell: “Iron Man,”

“Honey-Bear, how’s it going? Our bad guys all snuggled in their beds?’

“Looks like we’re mostly good here up here. No sign of our main criminals though.”

Tony glances at Steve, who taps his own comm, “Bag and tag almost complete. Hawkeye, report in.”

“We’re working on it,” Tony has a bad feeling, “Soon we’re going to start getting the medical personnel topside too. Hill’s going to have to deal with the hostages, and we’ll try tracking down everyone else. Doc’s going to need to pack some of these samples to test for Cap.”

“Copy. Keep me posted, Iron Man.”

“Always.”

Tony arches a brow at Bruce, gives a toss of his head and both men are up while Steve waits for some kind of word from their missing bird because that never bodes well. Worse, there are no heat signatures lower in the compound and the usual tracker is off the projected grid. Without a word, Steve turns to Widow, who is pointedly watching him and waiting; with Tony and Bruce busy, he gives a solemn nod; she blinks at him but turns to strafe out of the room before her absence is noticed. It’s almost time to move and Steve taps the comm again, moving across the room with one hand holding up his damn sweat pants,

“Thor. How is our Witch?” A piece of glass cracks from one of the storage lockers makes him tense, but Tony wants to be the funny guy and point a finger at Bruce’s turned back. Steve just shakes his head and mouths, _that’s why we can’t have nice things_ while Thor responds.

“I am grateful to hear from you, Captain,” the god does sound relieved. “It seems as though the majority of our foes are no longer a threat, and I will need to move our Witch soon. She is…incapacitated as is.”

“Understood. Start heading to the surface with her, get her to the SSARAS crew; they should have a medical wing on the Helicarrier. Once she’s safe, we may need you down here to help search out stragglers.”

“Aye, Captain. We shall be headed for the surface forthwith.”

“Keep an eye out, Captain out.”

 Tony is putting the last samples in Bruce’s backpack and steps back in the suit when he gets the picture; time to blow this pop stand, “glad you’ve got this all in hand, Cap because I am so not good at this. Seriously, Steve, don’t _ever_ get grabbed again. Like, ever, ever. Okay? I can’t do the whole, tell people who’s ass to kick or what degree to punch someone in the balls or whatever, I mean—“

 Steve raises a steady hand and raps on the side of the helmet with his knuckles, stopping Tony in mid-rant. When the helmet turns to him, Steve gives him a lopsided grin, “you did fine, Tony. Made it here in one piece, right?”

 “Well,” his arms sweep out to encompass the whole place, “better left unsaid Captain Obvious..”

Not phased, Steve just shrugs, “then you are the best choice for second in the chain of command. I made a good call from the get-go.”

The faceplate lifts up so Tony can stare.

Steve grins, “What? Didn’t Widow tell you?”

Bruce snickers from where he’s getting the last of the data in his backpack, looking exceedingly smug with himself. A metal finger comes up to wag in his direction when the door blasts open, throwing it off its hinges with a barrage of gunfire.

 Faster than he realized he could move in the suit (and damn if he isn’t fast in the suit already), Iron Man _moves_ and just suddenly, Steve is held up against his chest as the armor’s back takes the gunfire. He throws the metal workstation table over and shoves Bruce over over it to get him the hell out of the way (even if the Big Guy wouldn’t let the Doc get hurt). Falcon already has both guns out, diving behind a huge machine, ducking around the corner to return fire, but Tony already knows how this is going to go and keeps Steve held against him with one arm while the other aims behind him, the camera in his back helping him aim enough to fire low-grade repulsor blasts into the handful of mercenaries trying to take them out from the doorway.

 New problem, Tony peers down around the table over Steve’s head and Bruce is just— _oh shit_. There’s a spot in his shirt, a graze across the top of shoulder, but hurt Bruce is just a catalyst to something bigger, meaner, and greener.

 “Bruce! Big Guy, don’t change yet!”  He fires another repulsor shot while Steve’s hands grip the gauntlet around his chest. “Please, please, please! Not yet, not yet!” The rapid fire shots from Falcon take the rest of the mercenaries out, and the soldier darts past them, both guns ready as he moves out into the hallway.

 Left with the possibility of bad and worse, Tony starts to ease Cap down so his feet are on the floor, pushing to try and get the smaller man around to the back of the armor so just in case…The doctor looks up with the Hulk in his eyes, obviously trying to calm himself down, to fight the instinct. But then Steve’s pushing Tony’s arm to the side and reaches out with a steady hand, gripping Bruce’s bicep.

 “Hey fella,” in his hoarse voice, “can you make sure I’m not gonna die of heart failure before you start smashing our way outta here?” The Brooklyn accent is much more pronounced as this previous version, Steve 1.0.

 The reaction is immediate, Bruce just blinks and his eyes are his own. He even has enough of himself to grin back. Tony doesn’t waste any more time, lifting the smaller guy over the table and basically into Bruce’s lap so he can spin around and make for the door, HUD flashing readings as Tony comes out around the doorway. He makes double sure to stomp on the haphazard fling of automatics they used on his suit. Sam is coming back down the corridor, shades pushed up to his forehead.

 “Got nothing,” the Falcon shrugs, “they weren’t on the bio-signature readings.”

“Lead-line vest or something?”

“You wanna stay and find out?”

“Nope. We’ve got what Bruce needs, so it’s time to blow this joint. Think you can get the medical staff up to the good guys?”

Sam just gives him a _look_.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Take Steve and Bruce with you, I’ll bring up the rear.” Something sparks over his shoulder, “J.J. status?”

“Minor damage to the right shoulder, Sir.”

“Good.” He switches to the main comm, “V, how are we coming with those files?”

“We are 91% complete.”

“Rocking. What little secrets have we learned so far?”

“The building has security protocols to self-destruct in case of a breach. Not good news, Iron Man.

That makes ‘hurry up and go’ a much bigger implication. Sam’s eyes are wide, but he takes off, wrenching the door to the storage room open to herd the medical staff out. The tied-up gunman are going to stay that way, but at least they can walk. Sam assigns two of the hostages to watch/assist each gunmen and gives them plenty of warning _not_ to untie them for any reason.

“Time?” Steve demands over the comm.

“The self-destruct has not yet been triggered, Captain. However, when or if it is, we will have one minute.”

Before Steve can start in, Tony’s making the plans as he goes, “okay, here’s what going to happen. Everyone out of the pool. Bruce, get Cap to the Quinjet ASAP. V, try to keep the wireless connection until we’ve got 100% but if not, fine, whatever. _Get moving now_ . Got it? Widow, Hawkeye, where the _fuck_ are you?”

People are moving toward the door, Falcon leading them with a pointed glance back at Iron Man, but a whisper of something over the comm system gives him a good idea where the super spies are and they need extraction. Bruce is muscling Steve to his feet, pulling one arm around his shoulders and ignoring the hell out of the protests. It takes some force, but Steve makes Bruce stop by Iron Man, looking up at that armor with the same steely blue eyes stare.

“Stark,” Steve bites out harshly, “you better not end up buried here. So _help_ me.”

Tony hold up one finger and moves quickly across the room for the uniform and shield; with fumbling fingers, he shoves the uniform in Bruce’s backpack and makes the doctor take the shield on his other arm.

“ **_Stark_ ** , I’m not joshing you on this.”

“Didn’t think so for a second, Cap. Seriously, though, get out of here. _Now_.” His hand pushes the two of them down the corridor while the HUD flashes with Widow’s tracker.

He gets them so far and waves before taking the corridor further down into the installation. With the bunker walls all around him, Tony forces himself _not_ to think of how enclosed he is, how close the walls are, how the cave smelled and echoed when he was trying to build a goddamned suit of armor to save him and Yensen from crazy fuckers that just wanted a weapon. Before he realizes it, J.J. is becoming more and more clear.

“Sir! Fifteen meters.”

“Do we have access to any cameras in there?” Was that really his voice?

The flickering across the HUD is Widow, guns on both ex-generals while Hawkeye is working the huge mainframe computer; he sees Ross and Stryker exchange a glance through the feed. There’s a minute movement,

“Widow! Hawkeye! There’s a self-destruct sequence either of the ex-Generals can initiate. It’ll be a one-minute showdown to explosion central. Everyone else is heading for the surface—“

The spies exchange a glance and Widow is motioning with the gun, but he sees Stryker yell a rapid-fire command and then alarms are going off like crazy. _This is his **life** right now_.

“Shit!” His palms are out, repulsors at full power, blowing the ever-loving _shit_ out of the wall, making himself a hole in the main computer room. “Falcon! Witch! Is everyone out?!”

Stryker has a hold of Ross’s sleeve and they’re ducking out an opening in the damn _wall_ , so Tony just gives a long suffering sigh at the countdown and the two spies.

“As far as we know, Iron Man,” Witch replies sounding completely rung out…

“V, out now!”

“Already moving, Iron Man.”

“J.J. We need all the power—“

“Ready, Sir.”

Tony throws both hands up and rapid fires, getting through as much of the upper floors as possible and grabs both spies as they have forty seconds or so. The countdown is at the edge of the HUD.

“Hang on, keep your heads down” but his rockets are already bursting, throwing him and the two up through the layers of metal, dirt, and rock where the HUD picks up a sliver of sunlight.He curves himself over the two spies as much as he can, catching debris and falling rock to the armor, trying to do his best to compensate and not drop either of them.

The explosion fucks up his plans, throwing fire and death from all sides.

“Fuck!” Barton screams beside the HUD, something solid and huge whizzing right into him, and Tony makes a split-second decision.

“Time to fly.” With barely a motion, he’s got both palms full of super spy ass, jarring both from their death grip on the suit.

“Stark!” Nat screams, but Tony ignores her because  _it will work, it has to work_  and the hydraulics groan as throws them both  _up, up, up_  before fire and smoke completely consumes the suit.

**

The big guy catches Widow around the waist and Hawkeye by the arm, sheltering them both against him to try and keep the fire away. If Widow is a little more cuddled in the crook of the big guy’s elbow, Clint sure as hell isn’t going to _say_ anything because really, he needs his spleen (even though Nat probably knows he doesn’t actually need it to live). Instead of fixating on how she and the guy (and Banner) are finally getting along again (thankfully, it means Clint won’t have to take drastic measures to bury the Doc), he’s shielding his eyes with a hand and looking down into the fireball for a hint of red and gold armor.

The landing jars them both, smoke billowing out of the hole in the ground and a holy hell of a mess with SSARAS agents milling around, detaining the rest of the militia rejects, questioning the kidnapped scientists, and trying to stop a short, spindly-looking Steve from getting to that hole in the ground. Even dressed in his normal clothes Wanda brought along (the things hanging off his frame and one hand holding the waistband), he’s still an imposing figure, giving one of the agents a _look_ that immediately makes the guy take his hands off Steve’s arm. Doesn’t stop the agent from doggedly following the Captain, still talking about tests and protocols and such.

Almost to them, Steve apparently had enough and turns on the guy. “Look,” the voice, just this side of ‘I’m going to have you on the ropes if you don’t get away from me’ echoes in the empty surroundings, “you _will_ stand down in the next five seconds, or I am _not_ going to be held accountable. You get that, son?”

The agent visibly swallows (how cute). “Y-Yes Captain.”

Steve waves his free hand and the agent scurries off, leaving the smaller man to resume his walk, barefoot to the three team members currently closest to the steaming escape route Stark made. Thor, War Machine, Falcon, and Vision carrying a woozy Wanda land with them. The team converges around the hole, War Machine’s HUD searching for any readings of Iron Man.

Steve taps his comm, “Stark. Answer. Now.”  The Captain’s smaller hands are clenched into fists by his sides, a visible tick in his jaw from clenching. “Iron Man. Tony. Where are you?”

Looking down into the fiery abyss, a strangled noise comes from the Hulk. Thor’s face is stricken as he stares down. Clint, not giving two shits about the blood leaking from his damn leg, is kneeling by the hole, hand in his hair and face carefully blank.

Tony pokes his head between Falcon and War Machine, “What are we looking at?” Sans helmet, his gaze is intensely drawn to the pit with everyone else.

The whole team shares a twitch and turns to him, staring. With furrowed brows, Stark looks over his shoulders, trying to find the source of their gazes when he realizes they’re all looking at him. Again.

Wanda gets down from Vision’s hold and staggers to him, throwing her arms around the shoulders of his beaten up suit, tears in her eyes.

“Aw! I get a hug for saving the day?!” He jokes shakily, again, not okay with the staring, but his eyes are twinkling when he looks to Vision and sticks out his tongue, arms going tighter around the weakened Witch to hold her up. “I’m going to call this ‘hashtag winning’.”

Vision, used to shenanigans (also aware of his creator’s habit for covering up his feelings with humor) just smiles widely, relieved Iron Man is still alive if not somewhat damaged as the back of the suit has been compromised.

A sigh of relief comes from the War Machine HUD as Rhoades steps up to use a metal hand to rub the back of Stark’s head. “You asshat. Here we thought you were still down there.”

“Nah, the force threw me up pretty high, so nice scenic view for a minute, but we’re good.”

Clint’s serious face pinches, “Stark. I hate you.”

“I know you mean ‘care for and respect,’ Barton. I’ve got your number.”

Steve is pointedly rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand, fending off a migraine. “I have no idea how you’ve managed to live _this long_ , Stark. So help me, I don’t know.”

“Clean living, Cap. Besides, _you_ told me not to get buried down there.” Tony keeps one arm around the Witches’ waist to keep her standing while waving at the Hulk. “Big guy! You are my hero of the day. No lie, you did fantastic. Thanks for holding on for us.”

Hulk straightens up and grins back at him, “Hold on! Monday!” Referring to the cat poster in his room, the big guy is noticeably still carrying Widow in one arm.

“I know, I know. I’m so getting you more posters for your room.” Tony grins back, glancing around. “All right people, mission successful. SSARAS can handle it from here, so how about we head home. I think we all deserve a movie night for this.” _Get Clint to medical in the Tower and Steve Bruce’s lab_ is left unsaid.

General agreement from the peanut gallery (who are carefully avoiding the elephant in the room in the form of a tiny man in the place of a bigger man) as they turn to start back toward the Quinjet, Thor and Tony on either side of Wanda; Clint, Sam, and Vision with Steve to hide how relieved they are he’s okay, which leaves the big guy to look at the Widow in his arm, tilting his head to blinking big eyes at her.

“Hulk sorry,” he says sadly, willing her to believe him. Of them all, she _always_ saw him just behind Bruce’s eyes.

That blank expression meets him, “I know you are, big guy.”

“No,” he denies, hedging because she really doesn’t and he just can’t _explain_ it without Bruce. “Hulk _really_ sorry.” His big hand comes up, one finger gently touches the back of her hand still on his shoulder. His finger, almost the length of her upper body, is so careful.

This admission makes her blink and there, there’s what he was looking for. She is seeing him all over again.

“Big guy,” and her voice is lower, just for him, “I need time to think. I can’t…” And the guy is giving her those _eyes_ , those eyes that are all Hulk: big, puppy dog eyes that are full of emotion, a wealth of other things that aren’t just rage. It’s the Hulk she knows, the Hulk that sees more than just destruction.

“Hulk know,” and he’s still sad, even as he’s turning to start following everyone before the other people get antsy, “Hulk understand. Hurt Nat, hurt big, hurt deep.”

“Yes,” she agrees, swaying with his steps, her fingers are automatically sweeping over the stone muscle on his shoulder, “you and Bruce did a number on me, I’ll admit it….give me time. I need to _trust_ him again.” She looks up at him again and the Hulk knows she _sees_ him, too.

**

“Of all the—“ Ross, drenched, finally climbs out of the escape passageway, not giving a _fuck_ if Stryker is going to be all right or not. He’s angrier at himself that he made a deal with the devil than his part in almost killing Captain America. The other general is climbing behind him, blood a steady leak from the torn thigh of his impressive strike uniform.

“It was a solid plan,” Stryker interjects, his voice thready from the pain, “we have the building blocks. We needed the last pieces, Ross. Rogers is the only place to get it.”

Thaddeus Ross stands reaches up for the next hand hold, wondering how ashamed Betty would be of him right now, wondering if there was any way he could possibly stand and face her, face his men. He’s sunk far below where he meant to be with all this. Banner was supposed to be the means to an end, the final stop in a lifetime of work and research. Failure was not in his vocabulary, but the compromise he’s made, the road he chose to go down, he has to wonder if he’s not as bad as the enemy when it’s all said and done.

“Gentlemen,” from above, the voice is full of smug satisfaction, “looks like you could use a hand.”

Nick Fury, grinning, reaches down to offer one. By his shoulder, the familiar sounds of semi-automatics break up the lazy breeze.

**

Tony is doing his best at playing medic while Bruce is stretched out on a cot, half-aware, talking him through how to stitch up Clint’s leg. Wanda should be laid up on the other cot, but Vision hasn’t let go of her since they got on board; her head is on his shoulder while she sleeps. Thor, however, is looking content (for the first time in for _ever_ ) stretched out in his seat, head turned toward Rhoadey just in his civvies while they talk about the success. Sam, predictably, is still standing right over the pilot’s seat, arms crossed while he talks to Steve and Nat. The post-fight adrenaline is finally winding down enough that Tony has stepped out of his armor as well, free range of motion to slap on gloves and start with the nurse routine.

When he first came on board and got out of the suit, he’d pointed a finger at the cockpit and stared at Nat, “Wait. Are you telling me you’re going to let a guy that crashed a plane _into the Artic_ fly my multimillion dollar jet?”

With a headset already on, Steve looked at him from around the seat, grinning unrepentant. “No worries, Stark. All these shiny buttons and switches must do _something_ pretty keen, right?”

Nat just smirked at him, but Steve expertly began warming the jet up, so Tony just breathed a self-suffering sigh and pulled the big First Aid kit out of one of the over-head storage containers. Clint just shakes his head at the banter, totally hiding his grimace of pain; Stark pauses long enough to fish around for a small bottle and syringe (apparently he didn’t hide that well) to administer some kind of local. As much as he didn’t like the drag, fuzzy feeling of drugs, Clint let it pass this time, boot propped up on Tony’s knee.

The needle slides through skin in a rhythm that is strangely soothing, Bruce’s gravelly, slurred voice talking numbers and shit lulls him into a somewhat relaxed state.

“Fuck, Tony,” Bruce fumbles, trying to roll out of the cot and succeeds in smacking face-down on the Quinjet’s floor, “Fuck, _Tony_! The calculations didn’t—dammit.”

Clint moves his boot without moving the rest of him.

“Bruce, what are you talking about?” Stark is up, picking the doc up off the floor to muscle him back to the post-Hulk cot.

“ _Adrenaline_ ,” Bruce hisses, swaying while sitting up, “didn’t calculate for _adrenaline_ in the serum-blocker equation—“

Tony’s eye blow wide, mouth rounding in an ‘O’ of realization. Clint’s eyes shoot open and the attention shifts dramatically.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Tony pushes Bruce down to the cot and waves Rhoadey on, “honey-bear, we’ll need you to take the controls.” Because, gee, everyone else that could fly the Quinjet was going to be busy or too fucked up.

It’s too little, too late. Sam’s already bending over the pilot’s chair, hands on Steve’s arms when the Cap’s eyes start to roll in the back of his head, a low growl rumbling from his chest.

“Steve? Steve?! What’s going on, man?”

Tony pushes himself in between them, going to unbuckle the safety harness before the smaller body starts convulsing, fear claws at his chest while his hands move with more assurance than he feels. Bruce still didn’t have answers on how this could go, if Steve’s body as is could stand the trauma and strain of the serum taking full effect again.  And _he doesn’t know if they have a crash cart on board_. Fuck is right.

“The process is speeding up,” he doesn’t mean to shout, but he’s sure he’s not making anyone a believer in ‘shit’s going to be fine, as you were.’ Sam draws back and looks about to say something.

“I need the other cot set-up in the back by Bruce so he can see what’s going on. Ask him if we’ve got any seizure meds stocked in the jet. Then you’ll need to help me with him, okay?” Tony’s fingers are on the vein in Cap’s neck, trying not to be alarmed by the wheezing breaths, the slowing beats.

Feeling better with something to do, Sam is off.

“What—“ Nat has taken full control while Rhoadey hovers behind her to be out of Tony’s way.

“We didn’t calculate for adrenaline spikes,” self-recrimination to the side, “should have had seventy some hours. Not now. We’ve got to play it by ear. Call in to Medical anyway to be there when we land.”

Nat rambles off, something glottal in Russian but her eyes aren’t the usual ocean of calm. She’s afraid too. Good, Tony’s glad he’s not the only one. The fumbling and noises let him know Thor is helping Sam get things ready, and Tony shoves his arms under Cap’s knees and around his back to lift the guy out of the chair and get him in the back. Rhoades slides into the pilot’s seat, taking up the controls to level the jet out.

“Going to need it steady, Rhoadey, okay?” More stead than his voice is right now, that’s for sure.

Of them all, James Rhoades has a tight grip  on himself, keeping it together for the rest of them. He’s the one that should be second in command, Tony thinks with panic making his thoughts more scattered.

“Got it. Take care of Cap. I’ll keep us second star to the right, straight on until morning.”

Without the armor, Steve’s utter lack of weight is astonishing, but the guy has enough awareness to fist a hand in Tony’s shirt and pull weakly while his muscles spasm in pain.

“T-Tony,”

“It’s okay Steve, I’m here. We’re all here, we’re with you. It’s going to be—“

 "N-Not your fault or Bruce’s, okay?” The Cap’s tone is low, hoarse while they stand and wait for Sam and Thor to grab supplies Bruce is slurring at them. “S-shouldn’t have survived the crash anyhow. It’s okay, Tony, if it’s time.”

Stark’s eyes are wide, panicked and he’s leaning closer to the blonde head lying limp against his shoulder, “don’t _even_ say shit like that, Steve. You _have_ to be here, goddammit. We can’t be the Avengers _without_ you. Captain America, the _first_ Avenger, remember?”

“S-smart ass…”

The body in his arms goes into a full-out spasm, jerking so hard in his arms, Tony almost loses his grip. The muscles are locking, tight with strain; Steve is locking his jaw to keep in a cry of pain, teeth grinding and fists clenched by the time he’s laid out on the cot, Stark straddling his body to keep him from flying off onto the floor.

“Vitals? Tony, monitor his vitals.” Bruce, with Vision’s help, sits up, releasing his hold on the blanket around his upper body. Sam, arms laden with the requested supplies, drops a stethoscope in Tony’s outstretched hand. Sweating bullets, Stark plugs the little things in his ears and shoves the huge shirt up to press the disc to Steve’s left pectoral. In his peripheral, he sees one of those mask/bag combos in Bruce’s hand just as he presses it over the Cap’s nose and mouth to start pumping air into his lungs, forcing him to breathe.

Eyes fluttering now, Steve is trying to say something under the mask, mouth moving but no sound coming out.

“Now’s not the time for your inspiring speeches, Steve, just keep breathing,” Bruce’s hand is slightly shaky, his free hand pressing at the vein in Steve’s neck. “ _Stay awake_ , Steve.”

“You heard the Doc,” Tony parrots a little frantically, as Sam kneels beside the cot to take Cap’s hand. “Keep breathing or no suckers for you.”

**

Ten minutes of spasms and half-aware yelling ends with Tony on the Quinjet’s floor, both hands compressing the Cap’s small chest in time with the pounding of his own pulse, fear so thick on his tongue _he_ can’t even breathe around it. He’s not even aware he’s saying, _don’t die, don’t die_ in a mantra under his breath while everyone else is crowded around them.

“Let me take over, Stark,” Clint is nudging him out of the way, bad leg stretched out, but his hands are already replacing Tony’s, Bruce still manning the bag. Tony scrambles to move, putting the stethoscope back in his ears to listen for that heart to start moving again. God, how long could they hold out until something happens?! Desperation is starting to seep into Bruce’s expression while Clint counts aloud and the bag puffs again with no reaction, no sound of the heart pumping by itself.

Finally, while Clint is counting away, arms trembling with the strain, the Doc’s mouth tightens, “last resort, Tony.”

Nodding, he turns to take the case from Thor’s outstretched hands, exchanging a haggard look with the god before he pops the lid; the syringe is huge with clear liquid and his fucking hands are still shaking minutely. Stark takes a breath and clenches his fist to make the shaking stop; he’s the one that’s going to have to do this. With Barton on the blood loss train, Thor’s godly strength a possible death factor, Sam’s lack of medical knowledge, and Bruce worn the fuck out, he was going to have to shove the needle through Captain America’s breast bone and puncture his heart with pure adrenaline.

Tony moves right beside Steve’s shoulder, his own breath coming in too fast, looking down at the spot Bruce is pointing at with his free hand like an X marks the spot thing.

“Get ready to move out of the way, Clint,” Bruce warns just as Tony raises the needle and takes one last breath to steady himself.

“Yup, ready whenever Stark gets his head on for this,” the archer isn’t even phased, doesn’t even feel pain or care about the small puddle of blood under his bent leg; his eyes are all for the smaller man not moving, not even twitching.

“Okay,” on that, before his brain catches up to what he’s doing, Tony brings the needled down hard (Clint raising his hands in time), feeling it puncture and not stopping. Bruce hits the plunger for him once the thing is buried in Steve’s chest. Team effort.

Sitting on his knees at Steve’s other shoulder, Thor’s fingers go for the pulse in his throat while the others are in a stasis of shock/fear, counting down those crucial seconds for the adrenaline to soak into the heart. Sam’s expression is completely closed down when Steve’s head just flops bonelessly to the side, not even a twitch.

Tony’s eyes get hot, weighted, his lungs frozen. _No, no!_ He shoves Clint ruthlessly, goes back to straddle their fallen team mate, hands starting compressions again, ignoring the fact that a drop hits the side of Steve’s face.

“God _dammit_ , Steve!” He’s shouting, angry, working CPR like his life is the one that depends on it. “No. Hell no! You’re not going to go out like this. No fucking way! Seriously?! You can’t even work the DVR yet, Cap, and that’s just bullshit. I mean, fuck! No, just don’t do this. Don’t do this to us! You’re a fighter and if there’s ever a time to fight, it’s now. Right now!”

Thor’s head is bowed over Steve’s, cradling the Captain’s face in both massive hands. Sam has one hand over his mouth, averting his gaze. Bruce is visibly shaking, the bag fallen from his numb fingers while Vision sits at his side, eyes closed and head bowed. They’re giving up in degrees, but Tony _can’t_ , he just _can’t_ because this is the guy that threw himself on what he thought was a live grenade, the guy that volunteered for a bat-shit crazy science experiment that probably should have killed him in 1941, the guy that went through all that shit because he just plain didn’t like bullies, the guy that tore across Europe trying to save his best friend and as many people as he could. Steve Rogers was the man with the plan that just didn’t know how to quit; it wasn’t part of his DNA and fuck if he was going to let—

The head in Thor’s hands jerks, mouth open to suck in air, the heart under Tony’s hands finally starts to _beat on its own_. Steve’s eyes flip open, wide and drugged and blood shot, unseeing. The body convulses again, harder, almost bucking Tony completely off with a brute strength that lands the Cap on his side with Tony’s arms braced around his shoulders.

Like a magic trick, the shirt and sweats fill with corded muscle and size, the arm covering his head is just multiple sizes _bigger_ , stronger than before, the shoulders fill out under Thor’s hands, and the heart radiating off Cap’s skin is blistering. A full throated cry of agony comes from deep in his chest as the serum finally does the job on the jerking, spasming body under Tony’s thighs. Clint wraps an arm around Stark’s waist and hauls him off so they can try to get Steve on his back. Hawkeye’s hands on his shoulders, pushing, almost falling over himself when he balances on the bum leg. 

Bruce is just on the floor with them, snatching the stethoscope from Tony’s neck to press against the heart, to pry open Steve’s eyelids. Thor helps the shaky doctor as best he can.

“Fuck,” is all Tony can manage as the whole Captain is laid out on the floor of the Quinjet, seemingly back to his correct size. Sam’s hand is on his forearm, the soldier’s look absurdly grateful. The two are just suddenly grinning at one another.

“I am so making him a size extra small uniform after this,” Tony tries to make his tone teasing, but the edge of tears is there.

Sam, eyes also a little watery, just laughs too, “make another shield scaled down. That’ll teach him to get grabbed, won’t it?”

The two are laughing like fools, aware Bruce and Thor and Nat and Rhoadey are joining them while the man below them blinks owlishly and has enough left in him to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of this felt kind of rushed to me, but I'm posting it anyway. I'm not writing it a fourth time :\ Doom got beat pretty easy, I know (sorry about it), and Tony Stark needs to Rick-roll more people. Let me know how it turned out.


	16. Drabble: Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cap is okay. Everything is FINE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partly for LittleGirlLostExplores that wanted to know what Clint rooms might be…   
> I'm not sure what happened here. Clint finally opened up a little. Maybe he was freaked out about the last chapter, I’m not sure. And…well, when he's stressed, he notices everything. But, here's a little slice of life because.

It’s a common misconception. Someone says _sharpshooter_ like they’re saying _coward_ or _murderer_ , like the two things are interchangeable. He calls bullshit. The sniper picks the perch, takes in the area, and calculates the best shot, times everything for the _moment_. It’s the snipers job to watch, to taking in anything off, to make the call to end the shot if things go to shit and it can’t be done. That’s a part of the job. But he doesn’t call the targets; that’s for the higher ups to deal with. They pick the mark, the sniper makes sure the job gets done. Well, way back when, before SHIELD picked him up overseas, it _hadn’t_ been someone else that picked and chose. Maybe that’s the _why_ behind the fact he had disobeyed orders and saved Nat instead. At one time, he _was_ that person, too.

 Years ago, he’d been some little shit with a good eye and steady hand; he’d been more idealistic back then, wanted to be the best. After a year of cleaning up after the animals, he’d been able to prove his worth with a few trick shots from a beat-up .38 special roller. From then, the old man agreed to give him more than tricks.

 Eventually, he’d been good enough to keep selling tickets, good enough for them to keep a roof over his head and a meal or two a day in his stomach. The old man took his damn time before getting to the secrets (gnarled hands with a bowie knife biting into the meat of the wood); Clint knew he’d been in the war at one time and that’s where all the knowledge had taken root. So it’d been more with the gun before the bow (the scrape and tearing, a deeper swooshing sound as the knife slides) like he’d always _known_ where life would take him. He didn’t mind in the end, he needed the old man’s skill and he eventually got it. All because his eyes hunted detail automatically, an ingrained instinct from his earlier years manifesting like a hand on his shoulder, always there, but it was reason enough for the old man to take him on.

 The bow came later. Much later. Hell, the old man wasn’t even going to give it to him, was just going to let him use the old automatics until he made enough to get himself a better set (he hated the knock-off .40s, the damn things had rattled like they were coming apart). But, the recurve had been made for his palm whether the guy meant it to be or not, and something in his brain settled when he took it up the first time. The gun was too fast, abrupt, the recoil just a part of calculation; the bow was a different type of calm, gave him the focus he honed down to a science.

 Recruitment should have been a no-brainer, _Yeah, thanks for thinking of me. No thanks. Get lost. Get fucked. No means no. Don’t know the way out? Let me show you with my boot._ But…he’d gone, left the glittery life behind for something more (what he’d thought would be more). The others hadn’t really said good-bye because they knew, too, that he wasn’t a lifer. Hindsight and all that.

 Well, if he had stayed, he wouldn’t be where he is now. Wouldn’t be adept at stealth, at making the crucial shot when it was _needed_. He wouldn’t be with this crazy bunch of fuckers that like to give him as much as hell as they take. He wouldn’t have Nat at his back or Phil making sure he didn’t go off the deep end. He wouldn’t have to watch Stark’s back or make sure Wanda didn’t get a surprise hit. He wouldn’t have Thor diving in to catch him when the perch gets compromised with fire and big booms; he wouldn’t have Steve’s angry ( _concerned_ ) gaze while they stitched him back together. He wouldn’t have Sam’s somber stare over a beer and fucking Uno (don’t tell him, but yeah, he lets that guy win).

 It’s more than he imagined having, both in a good way and bad.

**

The swish lets him finally  _breathe_.

 He staggers out of the elevator (there’s a loose thread in the right corner), left leg thrumming with pain, and he’s cursing himself for not taking medical up on those pain pills (the doctor that finished stitching him had a tattoo removed from his forearm, he still has the scar). Next time (there’s always a next time), he’s not going to be a martyr, but, well, he’d had other things on his mind because _goddamned fucking Steve_.

 The lights come on dim, all spaced perfectly so the shadows disappear into the smallest nooks and crannies (the bookcase, enough room for him to perch on top, has cobwebs again; he needs to order more Swiffers); none are big enough for a person (maybe a bomb but not a person), and he takes a few important seconds to stop moving and breath in the air of his space, to calm his nerve endings still thrumming (smell of lemon furniture polish, stronger than when he left). 

He’s wrung the hell out, first thinking Stark saved their asses just to die (big hearted bastard) and then making his arms work to give Steve CPR hoping _he_ didn’t die. Just, fuck, what a day (there’s lines from the vacuum).

 He drags himself to one of the tall chairs at the island, pulling himself up and lifting the leg with both hands to prop up (the spilled coffee there yesterday is gone; the person that cleaned it has a size 7 ½). In a few minutes, the strung out feeling will fade, but until then, he’s happy to prop an elbow and hold the side of his face, bandage scratch against his sensitive fingertips (they even cleaned the couches).

 This makes the hand stop shaking, thankfully, because Steve was _fine_ (not fine); they got him back to medical to make sure he didn’t have any permanent damage (Nat watched every doctor and nurse that came close; Bruce did the main testing). From what he’d overheard Sam say to Rhodey from the sidelines, Cap had gone through cardiac arrest twice and organ failure by the time they got to him (he shouldn’t have survived the first one is the underlying message). The bastards had shocked him back to life so they could take his blood and bone marrow, so they could eventually dissect him to get the secrets of that goddamned serum (there would be others; Tony’s eyes with this knowledge, already planning a new suit with more tackers).

 But they _didn’t get the chance_. It’s fine. Steve’s fine. Everyone, even Stark, made it out with minor injuries. Everything is _fine_.

 A long breath escapes while he chants this to himself over and over, calming himself down with the knowledge the Tower was full again (there were more security guards downstairs than there were last week).

 “This is why I didn’t want to be on a team.” He says to himself in the quiet. “I never should have let him talk me into this shit…”

_“I don’t need it,” he insists, glancing over at Tony’s profile. He hides his left hand above his right elbow to tap out a rhythm (the elevator makes no sound other than the stupid background music)._

_“Maybe,” Stark concedes, “but it’ll be useful if there’s a bad one and you need a place to crash. Besides, it’s already done. You never use it, well, whatever.”_

_And Stark is giving him that look, the_ hey, you’re not okay and I know you’re not okay  _that everyone else has been giving him since it was all said and done: the mind control, the killing, attacking Nat like an enemy, pulling back his bow against people that weren’t the real target. Even Nat was giving him that look. **Nat**  of all people, the one that knew him the best, the one that wouldn’t doubt him (the light for 33rd floor is out). They’d been through too much to have doubts; they shared secrets from missions, bathing their hands in blood that wasn’t always unclean (Budapest all over again)._

_It’s different now.  She gives him the side-eye look like she’s waiting for it to happen again, for him to go blank, seeing and not seeing. It **could** happen (his heart is picking up speed, relax). He could fall under that control again, raise his hand against her, against them all. It’s right that they don’t trust him. _ He _doesn’t trust himself and randomly works his hands tight and lose to get rid of the feel when he drew back, knowingly aiming for her heart with the intent to_ never miss _. How can he expect…?_

_He feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin (the .45 is still in his safe house, unregistered). He feels like he’s underwater and his lungs can’t last._

_The doors swish and Stark motions for him to step out first, which is almost a stumble to get away from someone **else**  that is constantly watching every goddamned move (the voice in his head, making his body move **isn’t there anymore** )._

_The lights dim on and he’s taken aback for an important moment, hand tightening around a non-existent bow or hilt.  On instinct, his eyes search the corners of the room, the inconsistencies (one camera is pointing at the wrong angle), the strength (open floor plan), the weaknesses (too many windows), the lights (strategically fine), the venting systems (accessible), the floors, every cabinet, and he’s surprisingly…impressed._

_Stark moves to the kitchen area, one that is wide open and flush with the adjoining living space; not a platform like the communal area but like pieces of a puzzle slotted together to make a whole picture. He can just strafe over if something were to happen. Even the transition from carpet to the wood flooring is smooth, seamless. His boots wouldn’t make a sound (everything is high enough that he can crouch-walk without immediate detection)._

_Tony taps the top of a contraction on the counter with one finger and a red light comes on; coffee begins to brew while the engineer makes a show of opening cabinets to make the archer nosy...and it works._

_With a huff, Clint comes in the space, eyes constantly moving, and notices the overlap of the island that cuts the kitchen off from the rest of the room; whether by accident or design, it gives him a subtle space to perch under, the cabinets under it are big enough for him to dart in if he needed to.  The cabinets themselves are dark wood as is the island itself, a different contrast from all the white and chrome on the communal floor.  With a brow arched at Stark, the Hawk realizes the majority of the kitchen is done in darks, the wood polished with subtle hints of blacks and mahogany, an easy pattern on the wall above the counters and stove. He realizes those patterns are branches with leaves done in fall colors, orange, rust, and yellow. With his normal clothing, he would be able to blend in somewhat (he could maneuver so he didn’t give himself away) …_

_Clint glances at the cabinet under the island again and just suddenly has to **know**.  He opens one gingerly, those little fluffy pads on the inside of the door to keep it from banging when closed.  And yes, as he suspected, the first cabinet is hollow and can be opened from the other side, a false wall in it that gives way when he pushes.  It’s, well, pretty perfect, a strange afterthought. He wonders how many such things are built in around this floor, why take such obvious time to create this place for him when the engineer had a company to run, Iron Man to build, and whatever else was on his plate._

_He straightens and looks up at Stark, who is pulling down two mugs, one with a famous scene from a movie, “Shall we play a game?” that makes Barton grin.  The other mug is a purple one with “Archers always hit the mark” and a bullseye in the center. It…holy shit, he loves it._

_“So, I’ve it stocked as well as can be expected.” Tony is leaning against the countertop, arms crossed over the arc reactor hidden underneath the layers of finely tailored suit. “Anything else you may need or want to get for decoration, perching, killing, maiming, setting on fire, what have you, JARVIS can order.”_

_“This is the 65 th floor, Stark. Doubt I’m going to set anything on fire.” Clint snarks back, suddenly having the odd desire to pat the false cabinet._

_“Never say never,” the billionaire counters enigmatically, pouring coffee in both mugs. He offers the archer mug to Clint before adding sugar and cream to his own. Agreeably, the coffee is good, warming his normally cold hands with some measure of comfort. “Besides, if you set your floor on fire, I will seriously reconsider getting you those Bullseye collector plates for your kitchen.”_

_Clint tilts his head in a mock look._

_“Fine, fine! Kidding,” Stark opens a cabinet with his free hand and pulls out the top plate, holding it up between two fingers and Clint blinks, taking it. The design is familiar, a subtle laurel ringing the plate’s edge in the same colors of the kitchen walls, fall colors to make the laurel look like harvest._

_“Apollo,” with a quirk to his lips, Clint grins up at Stark, “gee. I would almost think we’ve met before, Stark.” He reaches past he billionaire to put the plate back himself (but he is a little weirded out Stark knew his circus name became ‘Apollo: the God that Never Missed’…how the fuck did Stark find out?)._

_“No, no, we hardly know each other,” Tony deadpans, waving his mug around without spilling brew all over himself and still manages to point the mug in an ‘up’ gesture.  Agreeably, Clint’s eyes dart up and a small smile starts on his face. In a perfect move (a hop on the island or the counter top would give him), he could jump up to catch the vent right above the cabinets. With the design, he could bound off the island or the thick cabinets for an attack if someone came through the front door or in the windows…he has a tactical advantage right here._

_Even better, Clint’s eyes dart to the entertainment portion of the floor, two of the dark leather couches are set against the walls while a third tilted at just the right angle in the corner for the perfect shot, another vent opening right above it. That corner, however, has the same fall colors on the night backdrop with the full tree growing up over the couch, drawing the eye slightly off-kilter. The set-up is professional, perfect, so much that the Hawk turns a raised brow at Tony, not believing the engineer’s innocent look (but not calling him on his shit either)._

_“You know,” and the voice is Tony’s but softer, like how he talks about how smart Pepper is, “I came back from Afghanistan a completely different guy—Iron Man notwithstanding—and I realized that if I wanted to keep **moving** , I couldn’t just do it the normal way. I couldn’t go to therapists and talk about the torture and the new hardware in my chest or how Yinsen should have stuck to the plan. That just wasn’t how I could function.” Tony’s gaze is distant, looking out the window into something Clint would never be able to see. “I had to run before I could walk. That’s how I could move.” Those eyes, shrewd, finally look over and he sees an understanding there, like Stark isn’t going to keep watching the archer over his shoulder waiting for the next time…_

_The tension he wasn’t aware carrying in his shoulders eases down and he sips on his coffee again to keep from saying anything stupid like, ‘thank-you.’_

***

The shower was, in a word, the best/worst thing ever. The soap and water on his damn leg just made the thing thump worse (they do a good job getting blood out of the corners of the shower, even when he’s covered in the stuff).  He sucks it up in an attempt to be a man about a little injury and dresses in dark pajama pants with an old SHIELD regulation t-shirt (he puts on a belly band by rote; one .45 tucked against his ribs since he isn’t carrying the bow down there). He grabs a six pack of bottled water and heads to the elevator; the thing sliding open without a word and taking him where he needs to go.

 On the 42nd floor, there’s too many people and not enough places up high (of course, he’s been through the vents, but his knees aren’t getting any younger), and he’s been here enough to be familiar.  Besides, there’s places to go where he’s not getting beaten or thumped around, so he walks past the nice medical staff further down the hallway (the first nurse has bruises on her wrist and biceps in the shape of fingerprints).  He should have grabbed some microwave popcorn since Steve just loves the shit out of it but the group has probably already ordered enough take-out for an army anyway since the man could eat a horse on a lighter day to keep his metabolism stable (trying to find _anything_ to suggest one of them isn’t really a doctor: boots instead of shoes, wrong size scrubs, peek of body armor…)

 The ruckus from an unmarked door makes him mentally re-set. He needs to. His brain can’t stop processing, but that’s what will make sure his people keep breathing (1,2,3,4,5…. the chest is so small under his hands, the body so frail and breakable).  Clint backs up a step from the door, staring it down with a blank face. The crinkle beside him makes him realize he’s clenching his fists too hard and he eases up on the corner bottle.

 “Considering the tools at your disposal, you did more than is usually expected.”

 His shoulders tense; he doesn’t look away from the door, but damn if Phil Coulson isn’t just standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him out of the fucking blue, also staring at the door. The man is at complete ease, hands clasped behind his back in a military-style parade rest, but he has the mild expression of untouchable Agent.

 “It could have been worse,” Clint finally replies, but he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

 “True. Luckily, we were able to…extract the good Generals to get more intel on whoever is behind this big bad.” Like they’re just talking about the weather in New York this time of year, or how well the Giants did this year. “We’re going to have some fun with this.”

 Some of the tension in Clint’s shoulders and back eases while they stare at the door.

 After a pause, Phil’s voice is deceptively soft, “I told you a team would be good for you.”

 “You were wrong. I work better alone.” But, something in him stutters at that and (Phil’s tie is slightly lose, he’s been doing paperwork again).

 Phil hums a little, still looking at the door. “If that were true, Agent Barton, I would have taken you off the roster.”

 “They don’t need—“

“Of course they do. Their dynamic doesn’t work without you.”

Angry sigh; Clint isn’t clenching his jaw. Really, he isn’t. “Stark’s suit and AI have the bird’s eye view every time. You don’t need a sharp shooter with these guys.”

“We’ve had this argument before,” and Phil finally looks over at him. “I have the data that supports otherwise.”

“…Sir…”

“Do you want out?” The interruption comes with a raised brow.

Clint opens his mouth to say _yes, fuck yes, get me out of this_ , but nothing comes out because he already knows. He _already_ knows.

“You know where the request to change assignment paperwork is located. Until I see it come across my desk, I’m keeping you on the Avengers Initiative. There’s always side missions, but I need you and Romanoff here.” Coulson looks back to the door. “The leg?”

“It’s fine.”

“If it was fine, you wouldn’t be limping.” Slight pause, “I know you can’t help it, but I want you to be careful, Hawk. Your health and safety mean a great deal to some people, you know. Some people would be very _unhappy_ should anything happen to you.” The undercurrent is there, buried in the deceptively mild tone; Clint slowly looks over, but the Director is already moving away, leaving him to stand outside the door with a pounding heart and the choice on whether or not to go back into that room.

**

“All of you,” he wheezes, holding his sides while trying to just _stop_ , “all—all of you just _suck_.”

 The whole group, _all of them_ , choruses, “LANGUAGE!” in unison, and he’s _dying_. He knows his face is probably as red as Tony’s armor, but at least the rest of them are laughing too. Even Vision is chuckling like he’s finally getting the whole, ‘this stuff is funny so you should do this thing.’

 But oh no, once Stark gets _going_ on something, the fella _doesn’t let up_. It’s a thing. Just as animated as he normally is, the engineer is doing a parody of Steve’s brief interaction with the younger Agent because some of them missed is, and because Tony’s an asshole.

 Arms crossed over his chest, Stark is trying for the _Captain America_ look, making his voice deeper when he says, ‘son.’

 Bruce is wiping away tears. Really. Tears. Steve just tries to calm down and breathe. He really doesn’t need to be in the stupid medical bed because he’s already back up to par (his darn chest hurts like a son of a gun from what Nat told him was CPR,but there’s only bruising and that’ll be gone tomorrow); the second the words left his mouth, everyone had pretty much just come down and sat on him until he agreed to stay _one_ night (Wanda is heavier than he would have expected). In shifts, the team had gone to clean-up, making sure someone was always with him (like he’d miss out on that little plan).

 They’d ordered in some food that tasted better than medical’s mystery food in ‘what animal does that come from’ sauce. Since Tony had done the ordering (and hadn’t gone out for his turn yet), it had been ridiculously huge burgers, fries, and salads that just made everything so much better, so much more _I’m home_.

 By the time Clint came back, trying not to favor the leg and hand out extra bottles of water, Steve had finished his third burger and second helping of fries, feeling tired but still very satisfied no one had been seriously injured on the mission to rescue him (of all people). But, he was their man with the plan, so he had to make _sure_. He’d caught the doc that came in to see him and asked about the leg while Tony was putting in the delivery order and Nat was out trying to find out where his shield had gone off to (it was still in the Quinjet’s overhead storage bin). The doc had assured him there was no serious trauma to muscle or tendons and the stitches were purely to try and keep scarring at a minimum. Steve was a little fuzzy on how it happened, but he’d get the story right from the source before they’d have to debrief.

 As is, he’d just given the fella the hairy eyeball until Clint had relented with a roll of his eyes and propped the leg up on the bottom of Steve’s bed and finally started eating his burger. Thor made his way back too, hair wet and in his Midgardian wear so Nat and Bruce could (take their turns) excuse themselves. Nat promises to stop on his floor and bring him clothes so he can get a scrub down here in the small bathroom as well; while they’re gone, the remaining Avengers will start bickering on game night or movie night depending on the mood. Vision still wants to see the _Firefly_ series from Joss Whedon he’s heard about and Clint will probably want to get caught up on _The Walking Dead_ (which is not a team favorite, but they tolerate it for him). Sam’s already been shot down at Monopoly and card games (Bruce cheats, so does Thor but not as well), Nat isn’t getting her foreign films tonight either.

 With everyone else starting to debate, Steve sighs and glances over at Tony just sitting on one of those uncomfortable stools, one arm against the bar thing on the medical bed.

 “Hey, Shellhead.”

Tony’s grin is…happier, more genuine than normal.

“Thanks, for coming out in the suit to save me. You and Thor…you know.”

The engineer gives him a fond look, “any time, Cap. Back on active duty, you know, got the paperwork and everything.”

Steve mock-groans, “so’s I gotta put up with you on the regular, huh?”

“Yup! I don’t hear a rousing, ‘Good for you, Tony’ speech ramping up yet. We’ll save that for when you’re out of here, okay?”

Just as Vision holds up a hand and says, “Nathan Fillion as a cowboy space captain. This should be sufficient evidence we must watch this show in it’s entirety,” Steve gives Tony a wide grin even though his eyes are at half-mast.

“The minute I’m out, you’ll get the talking to of your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original title of this was “Room’s Con’t” but I wanted to have some of the details from after the last chapter. Hope it worked. Clint almost made me nuts, just FYI. He notices everything, he spots the most inane shit that I was starting to go a little loopy. In “Failure,” Tony’s POV was prevalent so I didn’t see this side of Clint until he almost lost two people he cares about.  
> Also, LittleGirlLostExplores, I still don’t know what to do about Clint.   
> Consensus: Laura and little agents or Clint/Coulson? I’m still on the fence and made this ambiguous, so opinions maybe? Help me out.


	17. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never thought he'd hear those words seventy years later...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Peeks around corner*  
> *Looks left, looks right*  
> *Tiptoe tiptoe tiptoe*  
> *THROWS DOWN*  
> *RUNS*

He heard about it from Mrs. Slonaker on the first floor.

“—Poor Steven, he went when they came to get her, you know.”

It was hot, muggy day in 1938, a few days shy of Stevie’s 18th birthday. Bucky, already 21, raced up the battered stairs and beat on his Ma’s apartment door, calling out to him, hoping he’d already come back, that he wasn’t just _sitting_ there with her body, waiting for the undertakers or something. Mr. Eagleheart next door came out instead, puss hammered with a brassed-off look until he saw who it was beating on the door. The radio was playing in his apartment, Bucky could just pick up some low murmuring instead of the big band swing.

His eyes told Bucky what he needed to know.

“He ain’t come back yet. They come and got her about an hour or so and he rode with them.”

“Did—“ his voice cracking for Sarah Rogers and Stevie, “was it—”

Mr. Eagleheart finally nodded gravely, “it finally took her. God rest her soul.” He crossed himself (lapse Catholic or not, the man still respected Sarah) and ducked back in his place, gently closing the door.

Bucky took off running. He hit the streets and didn’t stop, ducking in and out of Steve’s favorite sketching places, their hangout spots, all the nooks and crannies before he hit the bricks to the hospital entrance.

The gal at the desk told him the body was already taken away (her face a mask of pity when he mentioned her son, the scrawny blonde) and arrangements had already been made. She didn’t know where the other guy went, just remembered he thanked them for their help before he turned to go.

When he came out the entrance again, the darkening clouds had opened up for the rain. Shit.

_Gotta find that punk before he catches pneumonia_ …

By the time he reached the building down on the lower side, he’s soaked to the skin and more miserable than he has a right to be, but the irritation fades when he sees the familiar outline sitting out on the steps just staring into the rain like he’s in some kinda haze. His shirt is plastered to his upper body, no need for the suspenders, but the fella doesn’t even seem to notice how bad it is outside.

“Dammit Stevie, you were hard to find,” leaning over a second to catch his wind, he’s not surprised when his best friend doesn’t seem to have heard him and just keeps staring absently into the rain. Bucky moves to stand right in his line of sight, feeling crushed for the guy, feeling that way for himself. Sarah Rogers had been like his own Ma after she passed four years ago from the lung; Sarah had taken that place, given him hot meals and an open ear any time he’d wanted it, _needed_ it. She’d offered him a space in their home (since he was there a majority of time anyhow), but he had a good gig, making good green in the bank and needed something to call his own.

The blonde finally blinks at him, surprised, “Bucky? What are you—“ _doing here_?

With a hard breath, he’s already grabbed the younger guy and pulled him into a hard embrace, cradling Steve with an arm around his mid-back and the other pressing his head in close.

“Mrs. Slonaker told me,” he says against Steve’s wet head, “I’m sorry, Stevie. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” _I wasn’t there when you found her, I wasn’t there to ride with you when they came for her, I wasn’t **there**_.

“You jerk,” Steve tries for fond, but his tone is rough, “it was…her time. Nothin’ to be sorry for. Nothin’ you did or could have done would have stopped the inevitable.”

“I coulda stood with ya, I coulda just—“

“…Buck?”

“Yeah, Stevie?”

“Hold on to me.”

Bucky’s heart breaks a little and his arms tighten, “I’m not letting go.” And Steve is grateful to just sag his slight weight into his best friend. He can take a breath again.

**

Buck did what he said he wanted to do and that was stand with him during the service in the apartment (they both greeted the mourners and thanked them for kind words) and at the gravesite.  He didn’t leave Steve’s side, finally pulling him away once the dirt was all packed and the two walked back to the, his, apartment without having to say a word.

It wasn’t the first time, but that night, Bucky stripped down to his johnny and slid in Steve’s bed to lie next to him, staring at the ceiling. After a while, they broke the silence with the usual talk of how much the Dodgers deserved the pennant, of what an ass Bucky’s boss was, how popular Steve’s cartoon was in the last issue, and what Steve’s plans were for then on out. Buck had shifted to his side, staring down Steve’s profile in the semi-dark, listening to the slight wheeze in his lungs when he breathed in more than when he breathed out.

The guy had just shrugged, “haven’t got that far,” he admitted. Odd for Steve, since he usually always had a plan of some sort.  “I’ll stay here for a while, figure it out,” but his voice was strained.

_Tell him_. “Come live with me. You could keep going to school, getcha degree.”

Steve’s head turns on the pillow and their noses are almost brushing. He wisely stays silent, waits.

“You don’t have to stay here, Steve.”

“…You know why that’s not a good idea.”

That’s really not the answer Bucky expected to hear; not at all. “I—I don’t—“ _oh shit. He knows…_ Panic flares in his chest. He’d always been so careful around Steve, hadn’t he?

 “Not what I mean, Buck.” Steve’s eyes are bluer than usual, dark with something Bucky’s never seen in him before. He raises a brow and then the guy is in his space, turning his head just enough to press their mouths together.

And, _all that’s holy, this is happening_. He responds helplessly, opening his mouth and finally _tasting_ , touching, his hands have moved up to hold on to Steve’s arm, but the blonde pulls back enough to talk.

“ _That’s_ what I mean.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide with realization, “you mean—you too? You never _said_ a damn thing and I just—I…”

“Yer an idiot,” Steve deadpans. “Really. You make dames send for the smelling salts but you can’t tell when a fella is really hoping for some action, but hey what’s four or five years between friends?”

The laughter was abrupt, “wiseass.”

Steve’s grin glows in the dark, “learned from the best.”

Bucky moves in again, pressing short kisses against his mouth, the hand came up to hold the back of Steve’s neck in just the right spot.

“We’ll be careful,” he swears in between kisses. “We’ll go on double dates, keep a cover.”

“Solid plan,” Steve replies between Bucky’s longer, more intense plays.

“Yer the one with the plans alla time,” he finally pulls back to stare into those blue eyes and gives him a crooked smile, “welcome home, Stevie.”

***

Who’d have thought he would be hearing the same words more than some odd 70 years later?

“Seriously, Red Dawn. The hobo look is soooo last season.”

Jim had been (what he was sure was) surreptitiously scoping out Stark/Avenger’s Tower, watching out for Steve Rogers for the last coupla months. He’d been careful to stay out of plain sight, to change ratty clothing every few days, to keep his arm and weapons covered; he had fucking blended in with the random crowds. He’d done a great job at it since no one else had come looking for him here (no CIA, FBI, Interpool, Hydra, whatever organization that wanted a piece of him).

Today, he’s in regular clothes to fit in with the tattered crowds around him, a battered green jacket, t-shirt underneath, and bland jeans while sitting on a bench, eating a sandwich when the guy speaks to him.  The voice is just so familiar, tingling with something right on the edge of his memory, and that’s what makes him turn to squint up at the mouthy fella with brows furrowed _and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that can’t fucking be possible_.

“H-Howard,” his eyes widen, something painful knocks around in his chest. His body locks for a few very important seconds, long enough for a sniper to take him out if that’s what this is.  “It’s not...” _possible, I cut your breaks…_ Jim is blinking up at that bearded man, feeling the program, the _Soldier_ , move closer and closer. He can see the guy in his mind’s eye, no expression and the mask just waiting for the right chance to take over.

“Nope,” the man takes a step forward, “I’m his son, Anthony—don’t _ever_ actually call me that—Stark. Tony is what I go by.”

“Y-You’re really Howard’s kid?” Barnes says instead, the rough edges of his accent sub-text of his mental state. “Holy hell, the man actually got a dame that would put up with his shit.” He’s got to keep talking like _Jim_ so the Solider backs off. He’s only got a knife on him anyway, just so’s the threat level goes down. Hydra won’t chance coming to get him in the middle of New York; they’re more of an under-the-radar terrorist organization but no need to push those buttons if he can help it.

Stark actually laughs a little, “that he did. Well, somewhat. Anyhow,” one of the hands waves at Jim’s general direction, “this is really a terrible disguise. I mean it’s so utterly unoriginal. Like I didn’t know you were out here after Day 2? Changing bad disguise Number 1 for Even Worse Disguise Numbers 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 did nothing to help your cause.”

Grey eyes blink at him, “let me guess, you’re only angry about it because you’re jealous of a coat like this. Not every fella can wear it this well, buddy.” He gestures with the sandwich at Tony’s own sharp-looking suit, probably one with an honest-to-God label in the back. “That rag oughta go back to the bin.”

Stark’s lip trembles like he wants to laugh. “Oh, I am so terribly jealous,” Stark finally comes closer and pulls up some bench out of arm’s immediate reach, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee in a false relaxed pose, but Jim can see the muscles tense under that nice suit.  The subtle side of the programming whispers Stark is about 5’5 or 5’6 and pushing 210 pounds maybe, but the majority has got to be muscle if the shifting of his shoulders under that jacket and the slim cut are anything to go by. _Stark, Anthony E.: Primary role: Owner/Operator of Stark Industries; Occupation: Engineer, Iron Man; Weaknesses: Sustained shrapnel to the heart; arc reaction located in central chest region_. Jim blinks, almost seeing the words in text in front of his eyes like he did when he was fully under. The change was just another thing he had to get used to or go nuts.

 “Well, I’m Jim, Jim Barnes; they, uh, used to call me the Soldier or the Asset, but, you probably already know the details behind that, genius and all.”

“I do, but clarification is always appreciated. So, read any good books lately? Watched some mediocre reality TV? Lot of good stuff in the last 70 years or so.”

A rusty sound could almost be a chuckle, “I suspect so, Stark. Now I see why Stevie respects you. He’s always been a pal of the biggest wise ass in the room.”

Stark grins a little, eyes lighting up behind those crappy sunglasses, “then he’s come to the right place. My wise ass skills are right up there with building metal suits and kicking alien ass.”

Jim Barnes’ eyebrow cocks up a notch.

“It looks good on a resume,” Stark informs him with another hand gesture. “So, you wanna tell me why you’re out here with the creepy stalker vibe or do you just want me to assume you’re starting to remember your past and want to talk to Capistrano? I get it’s complicated with the whole ‘America’s Most Wanted’ thing? I mean, you know _stripes_ aren’t going to do anything for you if this,” another gesture at the clothes, “is your idea of style.”

Jim hesitates, looking down at his sandwich. “I almost murdered my best friend. Hell, I’ve killed a lot of regular _people,_ man. That doesn’t really say, ‘hey, the last seventy years have been shit, let’s pal around again. Oh, sorry about beating the ever-loving shit out of you and dropping you in the Potomac. My bad.’ You get what I’m saying? I mean, I’m still kind of a mess, I could still—“ _kill him, kill other people. I’m not safe_.

Tony reads between the lines, “but, you’ve obviously been remembering some of who you are or were. You wouldn’t be here if you were still the Winter Soldier, right?”

“Well, yeah. The-The Soldier ain’t in the habit of hanging around on a park bench with a bad turkey on rye. And I’ve been living on a liquid diet for who knows how long. When I say _bad_ , I mean it.” He waves the sandwich to emphasize the point.

Stark’s mouth gives that twitch again, but he persists, “When did you _start_ remembering is the question.”

Jim blinks and looks back down at his shitty sneakers, “I—I’m not sure, but a few things before the Helicarriers went down. I know that’s about the time the fragments starting coming back.” His brow furrows, “the last time they tried to—to wipe me out for storage, it just, I-I couldn’t…It didn’t _go away_.”

“So, your memories started when you had to hunt Steve, when he was your ‘mission’.” Wise guy even makes the little quotation marks with his fingers.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

“Then logic dictates the more you’re around him, the more you’ll remember and the less control The Winter Soldier programming will have on you. Am I understanding that correctly?” Tony arches a brow, waiting for confirmation.

Jim turns back so fast, his neck twinges in pain. He blinks at Stark, but the man is just idly watching passerbys “…”

“Secondly, the Tower is locked down tighter than the Pentagon. Well, at least the Avenger’s floors are since some of SI and some of SSARS have the lower fifty floors or so. It’s the most secure place in the city right now, and you can stay out of sight in case, gee, I don’t know, the CIA or Interpool want to have a friendly little fireside chat with you.”

“I—“

  “Not to mention number three, but really, we _are_ going to mention it because that arm is a fucking paperweight right now. Seriously, I have Jedi Mind Powers when it comes to terrible tech and the force of suck is strong with that one,” he waves a hand to the nearly dead metal arm still laying on Jim’s thigh.  “Considering the fact that, yeah, Engineer here, built awesome metal suits, I could be a hell of a resource when the piece of crap breaks down for good, which, just by _looking_ at it, won’t be long.”

“That’s—well, shit.” Jim blusters, turning away from Stark again to watch the same moving traffic.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Blitzkrieg,” Stark waves a hand without looking at him. “I’m not saying come and put down _roots_ in my tower or anything, geeze, that would be kind of creepy, but it is definitely a much more strategic location for you right now. Homeless shelters and random boxes in alleyways are cute, homey in their own way, but the Tower is more fortified. When you’re ready to ‘hit the bricks,’ we’ll throw you the Hasta Luego party of the year and be done with it.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see Steve,” Jim forces out, “I don’t know if I can be around people and risk it.”

“Would you do it for a Klondike bar? No, no, that’s a joke, I’m not serious even though I would absolutely give you one. They’re awesome, addicting even. But truthfully, you’ve already seen Steve, not as ghetto fabulous as you are right now, but he already knows you, Jim Barnes, is in there. So, that’s not really a concern unless he tries to smother you in patriotism and lectures (totally a possibility, I would be nervous too), and the others are _Avengers_. I mean, do you watch television? Did they have those back in your day when you were walking up the hill, both ways, in ten feet of snow?”

Jim snickers, “God, Stark, you must _love_ the sound of your voice. Yes, we had TVs back in the day.”

“Oh, good. Then you know we have an epic rage monster, a sentient life form that could zap you with a thought, a scientific oddity (since magic is out of the question), two spies that would rock your world and not in any kind of good way, and let’s see, me. I’m bad ass even without the suit. And I repeat, the most _strategic_ place.” With a flourish, Stark ends his point and smooths down his tie.

Jim smirks, “you’ve got the suit around here somewhere, don’t cha? No way you’d come out here to meet me alone.”

Finally, Stark looks at him over the rim of those crappy shades and points one finger skyward. Jim obligingly looks up to see the famous red and gold armors perched in a window thirty stories up.

“Just because you’re paranoid—“

“Doesn’t mean someone is not out to get you.” Jim sighs a little. “What’re you gonna do if I say no thanks?”

Tony glances at his watch, “I’m still going to pick-up pizza. If it’s over twenty minutes, it’s free.”

“I mean, are you gonna tell Steve I’m out here.”

“Why should I? Have you done anything out of Hydra’s clutches that would warrant us to take you in as Jim Barnes? Other than the tech travesty of that arm, I’d wager you haven’t hurt anyone not in Hydra since you pulled Steve from the Potomac River.”

His eyes widen. _Shit_. “He knows about that.”

“Not sure. I do because of these things called security cameras. They’re very cool inventions, like, they’re on major highways and bridges when you have rocket launches and stuff.”

Jim huffs out another laugh. “So, if I’m not ready, you’ll just, you’ll just let me go on sitting here.”

“I would find it illogical, but yes. Until you give me a reason to give Steve a list of ‘James Buchannon Barnes’ sightings, then I’m going to let you do what you need to.”

 While the people of New York take their paths around the bench, James Barnes takes his sweet time going over Starks offer, his argument, weighing the options from the programming and his own. Tony Stark just sits on the bench with him, people watching and playing with his incredibly difficult looking cell phone; nothing about the man’s demeanor or actions show impatience or rush even though he’s gotta be a busy fella with running a multi-billion dollar company and being a full-time superhero. Rather, Stark stays in the foreground as a pillar in the melee of people around them; he isn’t pushing and that’s…what Jim needs right now. A steady something to be there without tearing him in two like the Soldier and old ‘Bucky’ are right now.

He should refuse. It would be safer for everyone. He should tell Iron Man that he has too many ghosts still lingering over his shoulder, too many moments when he moves without _stopping. It’s the Soldier still in him trying to vie for control over one body._ …But, _Steve_ …yeah, he finally looks over at the billionaire super hero that was offering him a place to be safe.  It’s a hard thing, for him. Stark can’t even imagine the weight of his crimes, his sins, are all over him.  He’s a tainted man, a man that can never be redeemed. If he really was the James Buchanan Barnes Steve saw in him, he would have put that fucking Glock to his temple and blew his brains out all over the ground.

“Your Tower is the best strategic place.”

“Seems so.”

“All right. If you’ve got room for one more and the coppers don’t come after me there…I can impose on your hospitality.”

“Great! Let’s go get pizza and I’ll introduce you to the Tower life.” Stark stands, clapping his hands together.

Well, Jim didn’t know he was getting, literally, fifteen pizzas. Honest-to-god, the boxes were stacked in the trunk of his fancy car as he piloted it around the city.

“Do me a favor and duck down,” Stark glances over at him, “no need for all the security people at SSARS to see you. It would be nice if you could have some incognito time, to, you know, meditate and find yourself, do some Pilates. Whatever really.”

Obliging, Jim ducks under the dashboard, folding his bulk as small as he possibly can in the _incredibly_ tight space. He bitches good-naturedly about crappy foreign cars as Stark enters his code, raises his stupid shades to get his retina scanned, and pulls into the private underground garage. The suit is standing there waiting for them. Bucky tenses but watches as Stark starts loading the pizza boxes in its outstretched arms. “That’s good 18,” he pats the suit fondly as it moves toward one of the elevators and disappears. Stark takes up the other three boxes and leads Jim to the other elevator that just eases open as they approach.

“So you don’t freak out, just know that I have an Artificial Intelligence that runs daily duties of the Tower,” Stark holds the pizza boxes up over one shoulder, “so if you hear this—“

“Good afternoon Sergeant Barnes.” A voice from nowhere says aloud.

“— it’s fine. Like I said, don’t freak out and shoot stuff. It’s just F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

Grey eyes wide, Jim sputters at the ceiling, flattening himself against one wall, “it’s your what now!?”

“My AI, you know ‘my gal, Friday’? I created her to take care of the Tower and help with scheduling and whatnot. So, you can talk to her, ask her questions, get some good advice about dating and relationships. The whole shebang.”

Helplessly, Jim laughs, “yer too much, Stark. Just too much.”

Tony grins back at him, “you haven’t even heard me get on Steve’s nerves yet. It’s like a game between me and Hawkeye, who can make him to say ‘Language’ first. I’m three up on him, not even lying.”

When the doors slide open, Jim is still chuckling, absently following Tony out into the open floor. Stark pauses right inside the kitchen area.

“Brought pizza,” he calls and Jim’s heart almost stops completely. Sitting on a couch with his feet up and a huge sketchpad in hand is Steve Rogers. _That’s why he gave the other pies to the suit, so he could bring me up here to Steve’s floor. Calculating son of a bitch._

“Hey Tony, I could have come down to the communal floor with everyone else,” Steve replies absently, hands working, brow furrowed with concentration.

“Not tonight, Cap. You’ve got company.” Pizza still over his shoulder to block out Jim, the man starts to sweat, his breathing becomes erratic with fear. _What if Steve doesn’t want to see him? What if he hates—or What if--? Fuck, how did I let Stark talk me into this?_ The cold calm of the programming beckons enticingly, it takes a lot of effort to force it back when Steve’s head come up in question.

Tony lays the boxes down on Steve’s table and steps to the side.

He’d been so careful and now, the guy is staring with wide blue eyes, eyes that just set off a stream of images in his mind—his _memories_ of how much this little punk is, was, is, his whole world. It’s still like pieces of a puzzle thrown up in the air to land where they may, smatterings that won’t go together all the way, but he knows it like he knows he’s breathing, like he knows his heart is beating, like there’s ground under his feet. He knows this blonde man is such a part of his blood and bones, it’s a shock he could survive without him. Stark just stands off to the side, head down and tilted in Steve’s direction but those eyes were just going back and forth between the two of them, waiting. Jim slowly pulls his cap off, hair pulled back as he looks at the tall form of Steve Rogers who is on his feet, sketchbook thrown across the couch.

Stark give a small smile and a flourish to Bucky’s frozen form. “Soooo, I’m going to let the two of you eat and catch up, fill out Social Security benefit forms, talk about those darn kids on your lawn, what have you. Call me when we’re ready to talk specifics about his stay, passwords and the like, what floor’s going to be his, keeping him _out_ of the hands of various authorities. And something bearable for him to _wear_ , I mean, seriously. The man needs _clothes_ , Rogers. Like _yesterday_.” With a flourish, Tony turns and gives the other brunette a final grin, this one actually reaches his eyes.

“So, in all fairness, welcome home, Jim.” Neither of them paid any mind to Stark taking the elevator away, nor does really realize that’s the first time Stark called him by name.

Jim’s too intent on _Steve_ , on watching every move, staring at the big guy that broken into a Hydra compound in 1944 to rescue him the first time those bastards got their mitts on him. The guy that was just a little fella at one point in their lives and went through Hell to give back, to take on a whole new division of bullies. Jim gasps in a breath, making Steve visibly flinch.

_Shit. I didn’t want him to be scared, I didn’t want him to--. It should have been **different**! I haven’t had enough time to get all the memories back…_

He steps gingerly forward and his best friend, the guy that was always there for him, brings his arm up in an automatic defense move, like he’s got the shield on.

“S-Steve…Stevie.” He sucks in a breath, “God, Steve,” and he chokes.

The Captain melts away as Steve Rogers’ eyes fill up and spill over, “Fuck. Bucky. Oh, fuck…”

Steve moves across the room to meet him half way. Jim doesn’t even hesitate, just grabs the big guy around the mid-back with both arms and hides his face right in that broad shoulder so the expressions don’t show, so the fact he’s crying like a nancy-boy doesn’t show.

“I tried to put you down, Steve. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says first, immediately babbling while the programming, that _guy_ steps back and away because he’s got nothing on what’s going on except Steve Rogers, protecting this big guy, is the new mission. The pain, the fear, the anger is all James Barnes and the Asset can’t handle a bit of it; the fighting, the protecting is all he’s got in him.

“I—I, Jesus God, I was going to kill you, you were the _mission_. But, after I, he, the Soldier, pulled you out of the Potomac, it just started coming together, an-and the…I started to remember… It’s just—fuck it’s complicated but I’m sorry, Steve, I’m sorry. I, he, did it to you. You were in the hospital for _days_ an— He wouldn’t have _stopped,_ Stevie. He wouldn’t have stopped if— “

“Buck.”

The chest against his vibrates, soothing as Steve’s arms tighten around his waist.

“Yeah?” Fuck, yup. Like a nancy. He sniffs but that doesn’t help.

“Hold on to me,” this time it’s Steve’s voice that’s hoarse and that phrase snaps back a piece of 1938 when Steve’s ma passed on and the skinny kid was in his arms like this, pleading with him to do the same thing. _Hold on to me_ …

He tightens one arm since the metal one is a piece of shit (goddamn Stark’s Jedi whoseitwhatsit). “I’m not lettin’ go.” He replies, just like he did back then.

Steve’s whole frame seems to cave in and surround him, the big guy starting to shake a little and he’s crying too. Jim barks out a broken little laugh like he can’t help it. “Lookit us, cryin’ like nancies. Geeze, Stevie. What would the Commandos say?” His knees go weak and Steve doesn’t bother trying to hold him up but the two sink down onto the carpet, where they can hold on to one another like children again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t mention this in “Spying,”but Bucky’s, Jim’s, real voice to me, the “not Soldier” voice is thick with his accent. Sure, Steve had to give it up when he toured with the USO, but Bucky didn’t have to, and just speaking like that kid from Brooklyn tells a lot about how far he’s come out of the programming, so…I love to hear him say ‘doll face’ and ‘toots.’
> 
> Also, the slice from 1938 is for reader reference so BUCKY DOESN'T REMEMBER ALL OF THAT. Just fyi.
> 
> Finally, the Drabble that is Tony-centric and goes with this is here: http://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/131951697372/drabble-steps. It's not that great, so I wasn't going to add it to this.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think ;)


	18. Drabble: What is a Soldier?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Steve

No one can be the perfect soldier. Such a thing didn’t even _exist_ because no fella (no dame either, he amends considering today’s standards) can be completely empty—unless you counted brainwashing, illuminating alien thingamabobs, those psychedelic drugs from the 60’s Tony babbled on about, mind control rays or other technology that can _make_ a fella do what the other guy wanted (thanks for those nightmares, Sam), and other crazy inventions that exist in this era.  But, the long and the short of it is that anyone walking to the line of fire had to have enough conviction to put themselves in the mindset to defend; that means, just going about following orders without an ingrained sense of right and wrong was as kooky a notion as you could get. Even when the whole world seemed to go to pot and people were scared of what might be coming their way, the dividing line between right and wrong was so damn _easy_ to see. Nazis, bad. Allies, good. Simple. All that made being a soldier easier on the mind. Made being a “good” solider effortless. Anything you did to make sure those bastards didn’t get theirs made you part of the effort.

At the time, all he had wanted was to serve like any other red-blooded American male; it was his duty, to make sure those crazy fucking Nazi sonofabitches didn’t get at any more innocent people; they’d killed enough, hurt enough. He hated bullies, always had, and the Skull was the worst kind.

Well, there was more to it than that. Bucky. It always came back to that jerk; his best friend and (later) his lover. For too many years, Buck had followed him wherever he went, trailing after him to “keep him out of trouble” or to intervene when Steve had stepped into another fight he had no way of winning. The guy wanted to protect him from everything he possibly could, and when the sicknesses had taken over, something Buck _couldn’t_ fight off, he’s stayed by Steve’s bed to keep him company, watch over him. They’d become so much more than best friends; honestly, was it any wonder he fell head over heels for the fella? No matter how much Bucky brassed him off some days with all the mother henning, there was no way he could tell his heart ‘ _you can’t do this, the copper’s will come for us both if anyone finds out_.’ No, his heart told him, ‘ _this is the one for you, for the rest of your life_.’

When Bucky was drafted…Steve’s world ended, narrowed into fear and pain for him. For all the years Buck had run after him, there was no way Steve could follow _him_ this time. The man he loved would be facing certain death, even as a sniper for the army. He could die in the middle of Europe somewhere and fear ate at Steve the moment he found out. Sure, he didn’t want to make Buck feel any worse about it, so he kept things light, talking about how good he looked in that uniform, the places he would be, the whole lot of “stay the hell out of the main fighting” Buck was _going to be doing_. But, the fella had always seen right past him and spent their last night being gentle, being tender, loving him with his body and mouth like he was already saying good-bye.

Operation Rebirth, Erskine, and Howard Stark were his only options left to follow his fella into battle. Luckily, him being who he was (along with the fact that he always tested well), they accepted him. The most pain he’d ever endured, and it had never crossed his mind to ask them to stop, not when he would be reunited with Bucky. Along the way, Peggy had figured it all out, asked him about the whys and whatfors. He couldn’t lie to her, lead her on. He had to get to Europe, had to find Bucky before it was too late. For a dame in the British army, she was more open-minded than most.

So, after the experiment and he was a new and improved, better than sliced bread, a guy that could actually take a stand. He took it as a personal mission to do everything in his power to bring them down.  The serum gave him the body he needed, but he’d always had the mind for it. Maybe it was all that reading or hours of board games when he was hospitalized as a sickly kid, but whatever it was made his mind his best asset.  Of course, the big guys in charge of the project had figured all that out beforehand because they knew what kind of fire they were playing with in the serum. The whole rigmarole of tests before they’d chosen a candidate proved that to him.

After he’d gotten a handle on the new body (mostly), he’d been nosing around Howard’s empty office and had seen the scores of all the tests he’d had to go through before they accepted him, a complex scale of skills they were looking for.  He’d nosed a bit more in the file to look at the other applicants and found their scores to be, well, pathetic really.  No wonder he’d gotten the job. His perspective made him the leader that the Cap needed to be, the one that could be in the thick of fighting and still be able to see _outside_ of it.

The strategies he’d come up with had saved the Commandos’ asses on more occasions than he could accurately remember. It’s what made him a good leader. It’s what made him the first Avenger (or so Fury once told him was Coulson’s description. He put it in reports and everything to make it official). That’s all there was to it. And all that crap in the textbooks today, all the fluffy nonsense that embarrassed him more than made his proud of some cock-eyed legacy (“the legacy of his great feats,” well, whatever).  He didn’t do it to dance to someone’s tune as a patsy for those stupid bond tours or to get big and healthy enough to live more than a few years after his 25th birthday (which, well, was actually in another two years); nope, it was stop the bad things coming closer and closer to his shores. It was to do what he could to make sure the soldiers and the innocent got to go home at the end of the day—or as many as possible.

So, that sure as heck didn’t make him some epitome of a good soldier. What few people knew about him, about the _real_ events back then was, well, he was a terrible soldier.  Not in the physical sense. What he’d said to Stark on that Helicarrier hadn’t just been fluff (of course, he hadn’t even really known Tony at the time, so all that stuff had been the mind control talking). He’d been that guy, the one who would lay down the wire so his fellas could get in the thick of fighting. Hell, sometimes, dreaming or awake, he’d have the _smell_ in his nose again…the thick blood, metallic and rancid, rank viscera, sharp, acrid piss in the trenches, stale water, and stink from too many days in the same uniform without a good wash.

Instinct and intuition always won out over orders. Sure, he could do what the higher-ups wanted, as long as their goals were in line with his. Those stuffed-shirts could deal with the crap above his paygrade, but when it came down to the fight, he and the Cap would always be on the side of the victims, not the bullies. It’s the way he was “hard-wired” (or was is hay-wired…?) as Tony would say (just because he _had_ to throw in wonky terminology that only made sense after a thorough explanation).

The comments about Captain Mercenary were closer to the truth than even he realized. Stark had it right on the money after all, damn guy really was a genius—seeing what everyone else wanted to ignore.

But…looking across the space between he and his best friend, the one that survived, then he could get where the _perfect soldier_ mentality came in and why so many damn agencies paid millions, ruined lives, to try and create a man-made animal, one that followed orders with ruthless intent.  This guy, the guy who was and wasn’t Bucky Barnes, stared right back at him, maybe thinking some of the same things. Well, considering how they’d left off, maybe he was thinking more along the lines of trying to rip his spine out through his mouth, or what would be the best proximity of a definite kill shot. Well, as the strategist, he could have already told the Winter Soldier he was too damn close for the twin .45s peeking out from under the battered coat. 

When those eyes narrow on him, he automatically tenses, shield arm coming around in front of himself (even without the shield) for protection. Well, he’s out of luck, though. He was just in civvies, jeans, t-shirt. No Kevlar or Nomac between him and a possibly murderous Hydra agent that just _happened_ to save him from drowning in the Potomac that one time…

The shadow in Bucky’s eyes lightens when his head perks just an iota… “S-Steve…Stevie.” The eyes, those _eyes_ fill up, like watching substance replace infinite nothingness. He sucks in a breath, “God, Steve,” and he chokes.

And he, yeah, that guy who actually said “Language” in an all-out battle, breathes out in a rush, “Fuck. Bucky. Oh, fuck, yeah…” The Captain melts away as Steve Rogers’ eyes fill up and spill over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve just had something to say...


	19. Drabble: Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two super soldiers eat their pie and relax

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little slice of life

The pie isn’t bad. Of course, it’s New York so he didn’t expect any less. Take into account he’d been on a liquid diet for who knew how long, and well, there you go. Anything solid tasted like a dream.

Steve is staring at him (still) while he eats one-handed, and Jim looks down at his plate a little self-conscious even though there’s this little _smile_ on the big gallut’s face. Well, he hadn’t stopped staring since they’d pulled themselves up off the floor and finally let go of one another; Jim had gotten his terrible jacket off and taken a seat at Steve’s little island thing to get a quick look around.

He’d been… _shocked_ to look at those cabinets, a little shaken at how much those wheat stalks carved into wood brought back:  _Standing in Sarah’s kitchen after he buried his Ma, the little lady just tightening her arms around him while he shook from all the pain…_

“Those…are familiar. Did Stark raid the old place or what?” Jim’s voice is a little wobbly when he asks, but Steve, plates already out of the cabinet, smiles at him.

“Nah. He…well, I don’t know how he knew because Tony is just like that, but he had them made to be similar, I guess.” Steve sets a plate in front of Jim, points a box toward the other man, and turns to get some drinks from the refrigerator. Jim just takes his time to watch him move, to let himself relax just a little more in the presence of Steve Rogers (the most emotionally constipated guy in existence) and let the smaller version overlap the big guy.

Steve comes to sit across from him, bottle of soda pop in front of Jim like they were still getting them from the corner store as a treat on good days. The guy gets three slices for himself and puts three on Jim’s plate before handing it over.

They eat and give the air in the room time to calm down. Steve goes back to the box for a few more slices, unabashed in watching Jim fold the slice to take a bite and that stupid as hell grin.

After the second round of slices, Jim finally gives him a smile back. “I’m not gonna up and disappear this time, ya punk. I made a promise to Stark I’d stay for a while. Long as I don’t hurt anyone, you’re gonna have plenty of time to lookit my ugly mug.”

Steve laughs around a mouthful, “Buck, you have  _no idea_ how happy I am to hear that.”

Jim grins back at him, “yeah…I, uh, I knew you were here, but I was worried, you know?”

Swallowing, Steve arches a brow, “you knew I was here?”

The brunette nods gently, “ya get out and run. I’d see ya go on by…made me feel better to know you were okay enough. After the fight.”

Steve blinks at him, “how long were you--? Buck, you could’ve come here—“

“Nope.” Jim throws his hand out, cutting the air, “no way I could chance it, Stevie. I’m still not together, okay? I have still have times that are more _him_ than me.” He hesitates, staring down at his empty plate like it held the answers to the universe, “I wasn’t goin’ t’ come here at all. I didn’t know if I could _not_ hurt people, and some things still trigger it in me.”

Steve listens intently, patiently waiting.

“I’m still dangerous, Steve. To you and everyone around me. So’s you can’t just let your guard down while I’m here. However long I’m here for, okay? I still—don’t really know what kind of things will set me off.”

Jim looks up at him again and those blue, blue eyes are something he just kind of _forgot_ about. Like how dark they get when the guy is thinking too hard about something or when—

 The memory strikes him with gentle prodding, this guy looking at him over a map in the middle of France and grinning a shit-eater when they start talking strategy. The moment doesn’t make him want to crawl in a hole and die; it’s not full of death or blood, it’s a warmth in his chest.

 Steve’s heart gives a rush when those grey eyes fuzz out a little and brushes his hand gently against Bucky’s, just a whisper of fingers, and even that makes his throat tight again because right _here_ he is…

 “Uh, sorry,” Jim blinks because he actually realizes when that shit happens now; he _knows_ when he fades out.

 “It’s okay,” the small laugh when the Cap looks down at the counter is a little sad. “I’m looking at _you_ , James Buchannon Barnes, and not the other guy, so I’m pretty okay with you getting what you need to come back. If…if it’ll help, when you’re okay with it, I can talk to some of the professional guys on staff so you can talk to ‘em about everything. Maybe give you some other methods to deal with the brainwashing.”

 Jim blinks at him and leans down on an elbow, “Stevie,” he begins seriously, “You don’t know how many different organizations are after me right now. They’re gonna lock me up for the _next_ seventy years if they’da had a bead on me here in New York.  Hiding out for a while took some of the heat off after all that shit in D.C., but I got no idea Stark wouldn’t have his security people send me up the river if I got too close.”

 Steve can see his point because, well, _he_ had trusted S.H.I.E.L.D once upon a time and look at where the hell it had gotten him.

 “Tony’s got contingency plans for his contingency plan’s contingency plan,” Steve shrugs, “it’s his way of trying to keep control over his life, I guess, but if I asked ‘im, he’d tell me he’s already starting on getting you cleared. He wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t.”

 With a grim smile, Jim just shakes his head, leaning away from the island, flesh hand curling around himself to automatically hold on to the mostly dead metal arm hanging at his side. “He knew I was out there watching you. Dunno how long he knew about it, but he’s an all right fella.” In answer to the previous question, “an’ like I told him, I need some time to get myself together, to just see you again, and then if their shrinks want to see what they can do about the programming, then s’allright with me.”

 Steve just grins again, shaking his head. “Okay, Buck. Okay.”

 The brunette leans forward a little, “tell me about how you got iced. It’s _some_ of it I know but not the details.” He lifts the half slice to his mouth, chewing while grey eyes take in the guy all over again and the warmth, the familiarity.

Steve doesn’t look at him while he tells the story in full detail for the first time; instead, he stares down at the flecks of color weaving a subtle pattern similar to the one on his counters while his memory dredges up the final flight of the Valkyrie and the fight that lead to his “death.”  When Steve comes to the part where he comes to already under water, his lungs freezing, his heart slowing, he jerks to awareness when Bucky’s hand wraps around his own. A corner of his mouth quirks, but he pushes on, talking about just coming to consciousness in that room, the one where SHIELD tried to make him think he was still in the ‘40’s, but when he busted out, looking around at Time’s Square for the first time…

Then the research. He’d found out how all the Commandoes had passed (had visited them with pints of booze to leave on their headstones), had seen Peggy for the last time when she barely knew him from one minute to the next (she passed on last year and he’d been there too), had lived through an alien invasion with the rag tag team the Avenger’s had been back then. Had watched Stark go through that wormhole with the impression the fella would never come back, that Romanoff would take a hit she couldn’t come back from, that Hawkeye would fall to his death from a collapsing skyscraper… it was a fight the likes he’d never seen and sure as hell thought he wouldn’t survive.

When he takes a breath, Bucky is just staring at him with wide eyes, cheek propped up on his flesh hand.

“Don’t stop, Steve,” the other super soldier nods at him, “I’m right here, listening.”

And Steve, Steve just blinks, catches his breath at the familiar expression, and just  _shit_ —his eyes are warm again.

**

Sunlight pours in through the windows, dawn breaking over Bucky’s features, and even though he could make out the cut lines of his jaw, the gentle slope of his brows, the stubble over his cheeks and neck, Steve is still staring at every small detail in the coming light. He’s lying on his side in his bed, head pillowed on his arm while Bucky was sleeping on his side too, facing Steve with his mane of hair haphazard, sleep-tousled, making Steve want to reach out and  _touch_ it. But, he refrains, just staying still and keeping his breathing, his heart beat steady to try avoiding disturbing the man in his bed.

Bucky had gotten a long, hot shower and borrowed a t-shirt and sweats to sleep in, had started out in the guest room originally (around 3 am when they could finally part for a few hours of shut eye), but soft movement on the mattress had Steve cracking his eyes open not long later. Bucky had frozen, completely unmoving in that Winter Soldier kind of stillness.  Steve’s mouth cracked open wide in a yawn while his free hand lifted up the blanket and sheet wordlessly.

Only a second and Bucky, grey eyes light in the darkness, had crawled under the covers. Laying on his side, knees curled up, the brunette had just faded into sleep and Steve grinned in the dark before he had too.

Now, there’s time to just look his fill. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two. I just love them <3


	20. For Some Things, There Are No Quick Fixes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things he can fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, this…I don’t know. How to describe the Soldier? I think Steve is just too close to Bucky to be able to figure things out objectively, so Tony kind of has to? This is what came of it.

So. He’s an awesome guy. Just, really great. No one told him that enough. Absolutely no one (well, maybe except the Hulk, who grunted more than spoke, but Tony got the message). Just to drive that point home, he’s let the Cap and Winter Soldier have some time to just hang out, get reacquainted, relax for a few days without sticking his nose in their business. It’s not like he’s been mentally redesigning the guest floor under Steve’s to be ‘Bucky’ specific or anything (he has) or sitting at his workbench in between projects thinking about what the control panel inside that arm would look like (oh, he definitely has) because, Hill, you know? _That’s years beyond Stark tech_.

 Seriously?

 Has she ever _seen_ his line of prosthesis? Like, ever?! His designs are vastly different than that arm, sure, because the general population isn’t trying to kill, maim, decapitate, eviscerate, or generally annihilate _anything that moves_ so no need for heavy duty concepts like Red Dawn’s hardware. Make sense? Sure it does. Never should have hired Hill, she still has a tendency to _hand_ things just to be a pain in the ass.

 A short zaps his fingers, an occurrence so common he doesn’t even flinch at this point, but he does have to switch out for the magnification goggles so he can delve into the smaller circuit board, picking the goggles up without looking away from the mounted pack DUM-E and U set up in the middle of the lab.  It’s set up a little high so Tony can maneuver around the whole pack should he need to, wings are fully extended to give him the space he needs to get his fingers around the wiring, servos, hydraulics, and whatnots inside. Actually, he’s pretty stoked to be working with the EXO-7 again; really, for an old MIT project, Wilson made the things work better than any of the other test pilots (and thus the reason Tony is fixing it rather than just scraping it to start over) which ultimately lead to the pack just sitting in storage for who knows how long—five years? Seven? Something like that, but in overlooking the damage it had sustained in the last few battles (which makes him absurdly happy that his tech is being used and standing up to the test, well standing up _better_ than some of his suits anyway), he’s considering the next steps and possible upgrades (like storage compartments for extra hand cannons since Sam already nixed lasers, taking all the fun out of it).  He’s been watching vids of Falcon’s fight patterns in the last three months of scuffles and is still sketching some rudimentary changes, but first thing’s first.

Get the pack working again (in case of invading slug monsters from the planet Orgeskdielx 7 or whatever the hell might be out there) is number one priority. With his rock blasting and buried in machinery, Tony is in engineering heaven.

Then some Stevie Knicks,  _Edge of Seventeen_ , comes over the speakers and Tony is tapping his foot to it while disengaging the fried motherboard, putting it on his workbench for later. The whole thing blew so of course the wings are pretty useless without it. He hadn’t put in a redundancy system (which, now that he  _thinks_ about it, is a really good idea so Sam doesn’t, you know, drop out of the sky to his death or anything) since the EXO was just a prototype and he’d been trying to wiggle out the inconsistencies since before Ultron’s creation. The problem was, well, Sam guarded the thing like the Dead Sea Scrolls and  _never_ brought it down for a tech refresh, silly but true. Who else would be able to fix it but him? Well, don’t answer that. Hammer might be a dick, but even he could figure out how to create a new motherboard (maybe).

The chorus is picking up (Just like a white, winged dove…Sings a song, Sounds like she's singin,' Whoo, baby, whoo, whoo, yeah) and he’s  _totally_ not singing along, okay so maybe a  _little_ because it is Stevie Nicks. So he may or may not be singing and that’s why the jostling behind him scares the absolutely  _shit_ out of him.  He spins, ripping the goggles off, muscles tense for a fight.

But…it’s just Cap and Red Dawn, the Klondike brothers, Steve’s hand outstretched from where he’d poked Tony’s shoulder and James Barnes tenses beside him for like a milisecond before moving in offense.

He shoves Steve away hard and comes at the engineer, grey eyes are just completely  _not there_ when the roundhouse kick starts and Tony can still see his face before the guy is spinning, leg lifting. A half second of  _oh fuck, duck_ , and he’s on the ground of his workshop, already rolling out of the way. Next is logically  _holy shit, Winter Soldier_ , when he’s up on his feet to try meeting the guy head-on with maybe a prayer because, hey, the suits aren’t far. Well, the Soldier guy already has a knife in hand and, oh yeah, he’s seen the footage from that fight in D.C., and he knows what the Winter Soldier can do with just a knife, what he can do with just  _hands_ .

On his feet quickly, he holds out both hands and yells, “J.J., take the music down. Now.”  Tony’s watching the Soldier advance, not moving, not backing away, “Jim!  _Not_ a mission here.”  But the Soldier doesn’t even hesitate to dip, swing, knife out, making Tony dodge back and up on his feet, by the time Steve is stepping between them. The Soldier ducks under the Captain, catches him completely unaware and faster than he could predict, then tossing Steve out of the way again like a sack of potatoes (a big sack), not really trying to hurt him. Tony takes it all in, his brain engaging ‘shit, here are his moves, don’t die’ mode.

“J.J.! Gauntlets!” He moves again on the defense as the Soldier jumps over the worktable effortlessly, knocking papers and parts all over the place to advance.

“Who told you to come after me?” Tony demands as the Soldier assess him for half a second before striking out again. “ _Who made me your mission?!”_

“Bucky!  _STOP!_ Don’t hurt Tony!” Steve is also vaulting over the table just as Tony’s gets a slice across his bicep for being too slow, but no one would be able to blame him because watching the Winter Soldier fight was like watching a river running, all smooth motions and muscle.

“Oh hey! Incoming!” He throws up a hand to point over the Soldier’s arm. The guy doesn’t put credit into the mis-direction, knife ready…when a flying gauntlet delivers an upper cut and the second latches onto the mostly useless metal arm to pull him away from Stark and put him on the ground.

With a ridiculous roll of his hips, the Soldier is back on his feet, but Steve is already latching on to Tony’s arm, pretty much throwing the mechanic behind him as the knife misses on the upstroke meant to catch him in the soft underbelly and rake up. Steve manages to catch the arm with the knife, wrist fitting in the big palm of his hand, fingers closing around it with room to spare. The Soldier pauses in mid-moves to come after Tony.

The guy just stops, like creepy stillness, staring at Tony over Steve’s shoulder.

This ‘not telling me when people are coming to the workshop’ crap is going to be addressed, right after he’s sure Jim Barnes isn’t going to rip his larynx out or something as equally horrific, maybe bloodier, well, maybe more damaging. Whatever.

While Tony stares back, Steve is talking low in the Soldier’s ear, neither man losing an iota of intensity. Something must be getting through because those grey eyes set to ‘maime/kill’ slide over to the softly talking Steve. But, if he wanted to guy’s respect, wanted the guy to see him as something other than a threat (or why the  _hell_ he saw Tony as a threat in the first place), he needed to start up with the repartee.

“Hey there Blitzkrieg, so, welcome to my workshop. Glad you could make it to the dance party. Nice. But, um, you already know better than to think I’m going to attack you or Steve, right? I mean, hello, I’m the one that invited you to live here.” Tony takes a measured step, and those eyes are immediately back to him, but Tony just throws both hands up, taking slow steps until he’s almost against Steve’s back, staring at in the grey eyes over Cap’s shoulder. “It’s Tony Stark, remember?  We had this conversation, okay. Like, you totally called my mom a ‘dame.’”

The eyes blink, the head tilts, the brows furrow.

“Tony,” Steve says in warning, but the engineer ignores him because those eyes are just a little lighter now.

“And, if my Jedi Mind Powers associated with  _terrible_ _tech_ are right, then you came down with Steve for a check-up on that arm because it’s just kind of hanging there, probably pulling at the socket or whatever they used to graft it on to your body.”  Tony steps easily to the side of Steve before Cap can stop him, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s probably giving you one hell of a headache, isn’t it?” Eyes narrow, Stark stares at said shitty tech.

The Soldier clearly hesitates but and the ‘murder’ vibe is fading in the face of this small, intimidating man. “The arm is malfunctioning,” this voice is the Soldier, no hint of the other guy even there, the Brooklyn boy is gone. “It is causing the Asset to be less than fully functional.”

_He calls himself the Asset too? Jesus…_ “I  _get_ that,” Tony gestures to the length of the thing, “it’s obviously titanium instead of a lighter, more flexible alloy, so it’s probably a heavy as hell,” he ignores Steve’s warning hand on his arm and ducks his head closer, already poking at one of the busted plates, “ _aaaand_ they probably have an archaic neural net connection. One that’s ridiculously painful anyway, right? So just the weight is probably making you nuts.” Tony straightens up, right into the Soldier’s face, not backing down. “Why haven’t you been taking care of it?”

The Soldier’s mouth opens but nothing comes out; he blinks again, closing his mouth and standing still.

“The  _whoevers_ that made this thing, did they teach you how to maintain it? Keep is from breaking down like this?”

Because if they did and Jim Barnes (like, the Jim he’d had a conversation with) had allowed the arm to disintegrate to this level on purpose…well, that made everything a whole different story. He’d still fix the damn thing, sure, but in the process, he would take the arm’s capabilities and strengths down a few notches, help in the effort to make Jim somewhat less scary dangerous.

“No.” Responses are immediate.

“O-okay.” Tony faces the guy, “So, I’m an engineer, kind of like a mechanic, which means I can probably get it working again, but presently, like, now, it’s pretty much just an expensive, oddly-shaped paperweight, you with me? I mean, it really needs _work_ to be back on-line.”

The Soldier blinks, “it must be functional. Without it, the mission cannot be completed.”

Steve eases closer and can feel his heartbeat picking up at the talk of the mission.  He has a brief flash of that metal fist coming at him while this guy, the one that didn’t  _know_ him was yelling, “ _You are the mission!”_ It’s the images that haunts his dreams some night, and in those nightmares, the world doesn’t go black. Instead, it’s Bucky’s hand with the automatic pointing right at him, nudged against his forehead. He wakes up when Buck pulls the trigger.

His voice is rough, his muscles tight when he hesitates to ask, “Buck, what mission?”

The head swings to him immediately, grey gaze all the guy that tried killing him a few months ago, “the mission—“ and something seems to short circuit in the Soldier’s brain because he stops abruptly and furrows Jim’s eyebrows. A quick glance at Stark and the eyes return to Steve.

“There must be a mission,” he finally completes after a moment, “outside of stasis, there is  _always_ a mission.” Those eyes are for Cap and Cap only when the voice becomes quieter, “ **_you_ ** are the new handler, so  **_you_ ** are to designate the mission.”

Steve stutters for a second, eyes widening in surprise. “I—Bucky…”

“Get the arm fixed,” Tony says instead, with a shrug, “get fully functional and get updated on the new age. Watch some YouTube videos, those are fun. Seriously, Google _The End of the World_ and watch the video.  It’s hilarious, not lying. But what I _think_ you’re saying is the first mission is to protect Steve, or else you wouldn’t have come at me, right?”

 Steve’s eyes slide to him when the Soldier’s head also turns, eyes clearly assessing.

 Tony just grins at them both, “okay, fine. That’s between you two, but as for _Mission Number 2,_ do you want the arm to work or not? Easy question.”

“Yes.”

“Do _you_ want the arm fixed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want _me_ to fix it?”

“…yes?”

Tony shakes a finger in time with his head, “uh-uh. Not how the free will thing works, Red Dawn. _You_ want me to fix it or you don’t. No middle road.”

 Well, shit. Now, he broke the guy. The Soldier’s head turns slightly, but he doesn’t even blink. “Designation, Anthony Edward Stark—“

“Just ‘Tony’ please.”

“Occupation and skills: Engineer, Mechanical prodigy, Owner and Operator of Stark Industries, Stark International, and Stark Security Analysis and Response Action Services; also known as Iron Man.”

“Yup. Sounds right.”

“Then…”

“Then what exactly? You know who I am and what I do, right? It’s there in your whatever database, rolodex, storage cells, or something. So, what’s next, big guy? _You_ tell _me_ what you want to do.”

 Then there’s hesitation, like the Soldier has no idea what to do when given a choice, and as bad as Tony feels for the guy, they’ve got to start somewhere with him. Tony gave James Barnes a choice on whether to be creepy as hell or to come to his Tower and start trying to get his life together; he’d given Jim a _choice_ and would have just let the guy go on as he was if that was the call. So, the Soldier needed the same kind of lesson, not that Tony’s a psychiatrist or psychologist, he doesn’t _know_ how this separate personality is integrated with James Barnes, but they’ve got to earn _his_ trust or maybe just cooperation as much as they’ve got to earn Jim’s.

 That’s all he knows with the evidence presented. So, time to give the guy that’s been an assassin by rote for seventy years, the one that’s probably _never had a fucking choice on **anything** in his life_ , a chance to make a leap.

 Then, the grey eyes narrow on him, the wrist in Steve’s hand goes slack, and the knife drops. “The Asset wants the arm to be fully functional. The Assest wants Tony Stark to repair it as long as he poses no threat to the handler.”

 Tony gapes at him, and then turns to Cap (who is also looking somewhat surprised by this observation).

“Wait, you just said _Steve_ is your new…” the distaste at the word is obvious, “’handler,’ right?”

The Asset nods once in confirmation.

_So, primary mission is to make sure the handler is protected, interesting._ Stark twirls a finger so Steve faces him, blonde brows furrowed, blue eyes darting to the slow train of blood staining Tony’s bicep. Stark just shakes his head, telling Steve without words that they have a point to make here.

 “Hey Red Dawn, check this out, okay?” He stands next to Steve, annoyed that he’s looking up at the guy, but it’s Captain America, for God’s sake, most people would have to look up at him. Tony crosses his arm over his chest.

 “Okay. Between the two of us, who’s the super soldier here?” Tony waves a finger back and forth between them.

The Asset’s brows are furrowing again, like he doesn’t get the point of this (Steve gives him the same sideways look).

“No, seriously. Who’s the super soldier? Him or me?”

The head swivels to Cap, “Steven Grant Rogers, designation Captain America, is the super soldier.”

“Okay, good. How much can he bench press? Just an estimate will do.”

Again, the Asset just stares at him for a second, “upwards of six hundred pounds.”

Tony whistles in appreciation, glancing at Steve (who is now rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, so probably a _lot_ more than that).

“Okay, how much faster are his reflexes than mine? Again, just an estimate is fine.”

“Approximately three times.”

“Okay, so I won’t feel bad when we spar with the rest of the team because, _really_. Okay, cool. So, Red Dawn, what damage could I realistically do to the Cap? He’s taller, stronger and faster than me by, like, three times. He has more fighting experience and muscle mass.”

In this, the Asset’s eyes grow shrewd, narrowing, “Tony Stark, _prodigy_ , created miniaturized arc reactor and rudimentary armor utilizing only spare parts while being held captive by terrorists. Strengths: survival.”

Oh, well, that answered that question. Now Tony’s the one scratching the back of his neck sheepishly while Steve crosses his arms over his chest, giving Tony that smirk.

“Okay, so you absolutely have a point, I’m awesome, but Cap’s my best friend here, okay? We’re on a team together, and you know, I really do listen to him some times—“

Steve guffaws _loudly_.

“Rude, I do so.” Tony points a finger for emphasis—you know, _because_.

“Stark, you are a pain in my backside and you know it,” but Steve’s eyes are crinkling at the corners when he’s amused.

“You’re on the long list, but hey, I keep you on your toes, Cap.”

“Not in the, ‘oh hey guys, watch me do something extremely dangerous, minor set-back’ kind of way.” Steve even does _his hand motions_ , and Tony’s jaw drops a little. He straightens, ready to really wind up, like ‘who’s the guy the just _jumps_ the fuck off skyscrapers without even saying he’s going to’ when the Soldier facing them whistles to get their attention.

 “This data is sufficient to prove Tony Stark is no danger to the handler.”

“Oh, well, good then!” With a long suffering sigh, Stark finally gets back to the point, “so, you want me to work on your arm?”

“Yes, the Assets wants Tony Stark to make necessary repairs to make the arm functional.”

“Thank _fuck_. You guys just make things waaay too complicated,” Tony closes up the holograms for the EXO-7 and moves to the next, clean workbench, motioning the Soldier over.

 “Okay, so J.J., let’s open up a new file, call it Frozen Tin Can, naw that’s too easy. How about Nutcracker? Yeah, that’ll do.” And the Asset is beside him, watching him with a brow arched. “So, what do you know about the arm? Anything? Overheard anyone talking about how it may be set-up or calibrated?”

 The guy hesitates a second before admitting, “Anything that may have been said in the Asset’s presence has already been erased.”

“Erased?” Steve asks, pulling up a stool.

 “Yes. The wiping process of electromagnetic shock was designed to erase all previous data the Asset may have learned regarding the previous targets or missions. The Russians that created the initial Asset programming perfected the process by combining a type of super soldier serum that later became the basis for the Weapon X program trials.” The man in front of them is flat, eyes empty like he’s reading from a screen. “Therefore, the Asset could be programmed with a specific target, wiped, and stored in cryo until the next assignment.”

 “Oh,” and Tony’s voice is rough at that, just staring at the calm, empty guy that was the Winter Soldier. “That’s just, wow, man, I’m sorry.”

The grey eyes swing to him, but the voice is just a little _different_ , “it was efficient.”

“I don’t give a shit what it was. It shouldn’t have been done to you.” Tony sighs as the Soldier’s brows furrow again and Steve lightly grips his forearm. “Right, right, just get to the arm. Sorry—“

“The Asset appreciates your concern, Tony Stark,” and the guy is also pulling out a stool to sit at the workbench near Steve, looking up at the mechanic wavering back and forth.

The mechanic wants to say something, wants to impress how wrong the previous treatment was and how none of that shit was going to happen here in Avenger’s Tower (since his legal team was already working on getting The Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes a full pardon but that would come soon enough, his people were awesome after all), but now is not the time. Maybe once the Asset stays for a while, gets used to a new life with choices and decisions and whatnot, they could work on it.

 For the time being, Tony pulls up a stool and faces the Soldier head-on.

“Okay, so since you’ve got no real data about how the arm is constructed, I need some schematics on the layout. How the plating is mounted and functions, how the inner wiring harnesses are put together, where the motherboards are, all of that so I can see what’s malfunctioning and be able to fix it then reattach it in the right order. With me so far?”

 The Soldier gives a single nod.

 “Good, so to get the schematics, I need scans of your arm. What’s going to happen with that is, I put a big plate here on the workbench, you lay the arm on it in a few different positions so I can get as much as possible. When the arm is on the plate, my AI, J.J. will start the scanner that is located in the ceiling, right there,” Tony points up to one of the mounted cameras, and the Soldier obediently looks up then back at the mechanic.  “I’ll do two different types of scans for each position: one scan will give me the outer composition and the other scan will give me the inner composition, no X-Ray or anything so you won’t have to worry about that, but it’s kind of like an infrared or night vision cameras for machinery. It’s cool, you’ll be able to see the scans once I’m done.” Tony leans one elbow on the table, “any questions?”

 The grey eyes darken a moment, but the Soldier hesitates.

“Go on and ask,” Tony encourages. “You can always ask questions because I like to answer them.”

The Soldier seems to gather data, “will these scan cause…”

Stark’s eyebrows go up and he waits.

“Pain?”

“No. Absolutely not. The technology isn’t designed to affect machinery, so it isn’t going to affect the neural net that makes you feel and operate the arm like it’s your own. The only discomfort you may feel is where the arm is attached to your body if turning it a certain way pulls a little, but all you have to do is _say_ something and we’ll re-position the arm so you’re comfortable and I get the data I need. Next question.”

 The Soldier seems to think, “what if the arm is unable to be repaired?”

 Tony blinks at that, “then I build you a better one. Might take a few days, maybe a week since I’m not sure how it’s connected to your body and your mind to control movement, but me and Jolly Green, uh Dr. Banner, are a good team and together, we can figure out how to get you up and running again.”

 Those eyebrows again, “you would build the Asset a new arm?”

 “Well, yeah. You probably don’t remember this, but I’m the one that invited Jim Barnes, in essence, _you_ , to come stay at the Tower. So, yeah. If I can’t get this arm working, then I’ll just build you a better one.” Tony shrugs carelessly because it’s not like _he hadn’t planned to do that any way. Anything better than Stark Tech, his **ass**._

 The Soldier just stares at him, the only sound is breathing, the hum of the bots in their charging stations.

“As long as you’re cool with _me_ building it, I guess.”

The grey eyes narrow then, “what is the mission in exchange for this service?”

And both men read into that (as in _who do I have to kill for you to fix this useless piece of scrap?_ )

 A spear of utter _loathing_ shoots through his chest, and Tony forces himself to be calm because, well, knives and stuff.

“Nothing, there’s nothing I want you to do… No, wait,” Tony leans forward, one hand on his thigh, and points the other finger at the Soldier, “for me to fix that arm, you have to make Cap happy and hang out for a while. How’s that? Chill here, eat some food, get caught up on terrible daytime TV, get to know the Avengers, preferably without _killing_ anyone because, well, we kind of like them breathing and stuff, and just…relax for a while.”

 Cap huffs another laugh while the Soldier’s eyes actually get wide.

“This is not an equal exchange, Tony Stark.”

Tony sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and gives the guy the look, “I am helping you out because A) you’re a friend of Cap’s whether you know it or not and because Cap is _my_ friend, so I’m doing it. B) If anyone _ever_ deserves a new arm, then it’s _you_ , so yeah. New arm it’ll be. And C) building and fixing is just _what I do_. I don’t need you to go on a “mission” or kill someone or do whatever it is that you did for those asshats. The only thing I need you to do is try to do things you _want_ to do and maybe _like_ to do or just figure out what those things are. Make sense?”

 “No,” the Asset admits.

“It will eventually. You’ll come to realize that I make the most sense when I’m kicking ass in the suit. Everything else just kind falls into place.” Tony grins and stands up to pull out the plate he had mentioned. It’s about half the size of the table and specifically designed to absorb the scan, giving him the clearest picture possible of the workings behind smallest machines (it was hella useful on designing better Widow Bites).

 Tony pulls out a spare gauntlet and puts it down flat on the plate, “okay, so you can see how this works—“ he turns to pull out one of the hologram screens, enlarging it. “This screen is going to show you the scan before freezing the frame, so J.J.? Start the scan.”

 “Beginning, Sir.”

 The Asset and Cap both watch in fascination at the light from the ceiling moves over the gauntlet on the plate, and the corresponding image shows up on the hologram with incredible finite detail of the circuitry and inner workings. Tony just motions with flourish, “see? _This_ is the kind of thing I need to fix the arm. I’ve got to know what makes everything work first.”

 The Asset stares at the hologram for a few more seconds and finally gives a brisk nod. With abrupt movements (very different than the Jim Tony’s watched outside the Tower), he stands and takes the shirt off to show…

  _Jesus_ , Tony hopes the horror isn’t showing on his face and hurries to school his expression. Cap…Cap isn’t good enough to fake that he’s pretty upset. His blue eyes are shocked, his hands fisted tightly in his lap. Whoever put that arm on Jim Barnes was a sadistic, spiteful, evil son of a _bitch_. The scar tissue is extensive around the missing limb, a port mounted to act as a pseudo socket for the arm to fit, rotate, etc.

 Tony has to close his eyes and breathe through his nose once. The guy is sitting back down, eyes narrowed, and looking back at him.

 “Sorry,” Tony immediately placates, “but that just really _pisses me off_ because there’s no excuse for fucking terrible tech like that. So not your bad, but really. My tech is better. Anyway, you cool with doing the scans now that you’ve see what’ll happen, right? I mean, you can definitely say **no** , and I’ll respect that. Or, I can scan something else if you want to see more.”

 Obviously still not at ease, the guy gives a sharp motion and uses his good arm to flop the mechanical one on the plate gracelessly. Tony reaches over to stretch the fingers out, lay the forearm and wrist down, manipulating the elbow to scoot over to the right.

 “Okay, you good? That uncomfortable?”

“It does not cause the Asset pain.”

“All right, that’s cool. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“J.J.?”

“Beginning scan.”

The Asset didn’t jerk away or even breathe when the light quickly scanned over his arm and the new image appears on the screen in front of Tony. And _holy shit_ , it’s a mess. The whole damn thing is just a mess of haphazard wires, gears, servos, and just _good God_.

 “ ** _Wow_**.”

Cap straightens, “Tony, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that.”

“I reserve it for things like this utter hodgepodge of fuckery. Seriously, Cap. I have no idea how the thing functioned even before it was damaged because, look at this! Just _look at this!”_ Then the Engineer glints in Stark’s eye. He’s pointing to bundles of wires and clusters of tiny parts while neither Cap nor the Asset can figure as necessary or “the brainchild acid-induced nightmares.”

 Tony runs slow on his rant about ten minutes later, just disgusted, and looks at the Asset with expectation, but he’s pleased to find the guy with a brow cocked up and grey eyes a lot less scarily empty.

 “And the point of this Stark Story Time is _what_ again?” Jim Barnes asks, waving his good hand.

 Tony grins at him, pretty fucking _relieved_. “To tell the _other_ guy, the one that’s pretty good with a knife, why he’s so lucky to be in my Tower because no one but me could even take a stab at fixing this—this chaos. I mean, have you even _seen_ how this wiring harness is just a mess of crap? Engineering fuck-face Number 1 didn’t even keep the wires from getting caught in the joints! I mean, **_who does that_**?”

 Jim holds up his good hand, slowing Tony down, and the guy is grinning. “Whoa, whoa. Okay, slow down there, doll face. The question is, can you fix it so it moves again? Cause that’s what I’m lookin’ for.”

 Tony just gives him a patient look.

“Okay, enough said. When can you do it? Couple days?”

“I thought that’s why you were here?” Taking a specific toolbox from under the work bench, Tony pulls up his stool, and nothing is said between him, Jim, or the Captain regarding the Winter Soldier.

**

Five hours of intense work just vanished. Tony had already called Bruce (who is away at a conference in San Francisco) once to talk about the neural net connections between the arm and Jim’s brain, texting just a piece of the arm’s tech (because _reasons_ ) so he didn’t sever any connections. As a matter of fact, it is Tony’s prime directive to avoid causing Jim Barnes any further pain in regards to the arm.

 Other than that, J.J. has projected a screen for Cap and Red Dawn to watch movies while Tony works tirelessly. He’s been forced to pry back some of the plating to find the main seam of the arm to open the damn thing up to start work; since half the inner workings have been blown all to hell, it was going to be a crazy night. Not anything he wasn’t used to, of course, but of all the ‘fixing’ Tony Stark has ever done, he’s never worked on a machine literally attached to a person (central nervous system, brain stem, etc.). Sure, he’s worked on machines other people _used_ , like the prosthetics or weapons or whatever, but this one made him careful enough, steady enough to check on Barnes’ reactions whenever he gets to sensitive areas. A few times, Cap has caught the look and given Jim a glance as well before going back to the screen.

 “Wow, this is better than the talkies ever were,” Jim finally says with a glance at Steve. “I mean _The Jazz Singer_ was all right, but what if Artie and Snitch could’ve seen something like this.” His free arm gestures to the new _Star Trek_ (George Kirk looked vaguely familiar to him, but from where…?).

 Steve laughs, “or Mr. Reinhart, that old guy always thought _The Singing Fool_ was aces.”

“Aw, he was a good-hearted fella. Always threw an extra thumb of ham when Ma wanted it for Sundays.”

“I remember that!”

Something deep in Tony’s chest warms to hear the slight hitch of accent coming into Steve’s tone, the _real_ laughter, and genuine contentment that had never been there. Jim Barnes is a crucial piece to Steve’s past, and now Tony Stark is convinced he did the right thing. A glance up at the two of them, bantering back and forth without a care about the movie, make him smile down at his work.

 The nest of wiring has to be delicately rearranged, that piece can get solder so the connections are solid, the wiring harness is cracked, so the smaller replacement would help—

“Heya Tony.”

The mechanic jumps at the hand on his arm and pulls his goggles up to his forehead, blinking.

“I gotta take a piss, so break time, okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Tony gives himself a mental shake to dispel the images in his mind and closes the arm up carefully, latching three distinct places. “Sorry, I get pretty involved on my projects, which is why all my workshop stool have an epic padding to ass ratio.” He stands, stretching to work out the massive kinks in his spine, the rapid cracks showing him how long he’d been bent over the arm.

 Jim laughs a little, standing as well, arching his back a little. “I can see why. My ass feels just fine, Stark.” Those grey eye twinkle a little.

 “If I told you the amount of stools I sat on to find the right one, you would laugh. It’s terrible. Anyway, bathroom is right over there. We can order some take out and get back to it unless you and Cap need to hurry.” In his, ‘I don’t want to interrupt the best friend _holy shit, you’re alive and here_ ’ vibe, Tony just holds up both hands, palm up.

 Jim’s eyes dart to Steve and back, “nah. I think food and getting this damn thing more n’ a useless scrap pile sounds about right.”

 “Cool. J.J.?” Tony starts moving his tools back, turning of the soldering iron, “how about we do some epic burgers and fries?”

 “Of course, Sir. Would you prefer Mike’s or SuperBurger?”

“Huh, that’s a tough one. Let’s do Mike’s since we’ve got two super soldiers to feed. Get ‘em two half-pounders each and just enough fries to give me a heart attack. Sound good?”

Cap just laughs from stretching his legs, “good to me, Tony. Ah, there it is.” He plucks the battered First Aid kit from under another work bench (since Stark hadn’t replaced the last one in the bathroom) and motions Tony to hop up on the bench.

 Tony, of course, rolls his eyes, “aw, c’mon Steve, seriously—“

 “Don’t even wanna hear it, Mister. Front and center.” Steve is already popping the lid and digging out the antiseptic, healing goop, and cotton balls; of course, he expects Tony to make a show of it and the engineer doesn’t disappoint. The self-suffering sigh and abrupt flop on his stool just make Steve smile while getting supplies.

 Gently as possible, Steve holds Tony’s bicep in one hand while the other gingerly dabs at the (fairly) deep cut across the muscle; he won’t need stitches or anything, so at least the Soldier was somewhat wrangled in at the time. To his credit, Tony is staring at the holograms of the arm still up while he tolerates the mother henning.

 “Hey,” softly, Cap’s voice draws his attention.

“Hm? Aw, don’t even stress about it, Cap, really. I mean, it might take me just a few more hours to get it _working_ so he can at least use the damn thing, but I’m going to make him a new one anyway. Now I know what I’m working with, I can design it in a week, well, maybe more like three days because he doesn’t necessarily _need_ repulsors or lasers or flame throwers (maybe), but why the hell not—?“

 “ _Tony_ ,” Steve’s eyes are crinkling at the corners with his grin and the engineer’s heart gives a hard thump, quieting him at the peace on his friend’s face. “Thank-you for this. I mean it, fella. Whole heartedly. You brought him here, you’re letting him _stay here_ even though he’s still dangerous and then the arm? He attacked you and you just…” helpless to explain, Steve just straightens, turns a little.  “You’re a good man Tony, a great friend and the fact you’re doing this just—.”

 But the other man is smiling a little sadly, “Steve, I…I _can’t_ do anything about Hydra, about torture, or brainwashing. I can’t…I can’t fix that, but this,” he waves his good hand at the hologram, “is something I **can** do, okay?”

 Whatever is in Steve Grant Rogers for this man, whatever affection or friendship (or more confusing knot of emotions) just grows exponentially when he gets this sincere admittance. He just huffs a little helplessly and presses gauze pad over the smeared goop that makes cuts heal faster.

 “I think you’re my hero,” Steve claims quietly as he wraps a layer of bandage to hold the pad in place while Jim emerges from the bathroom, striding with an easy gait that isn’t the smooth flow of the Winter Soldier.

 Tony laughs at that, eyes twinkling with mirth because he thinks it’s a joke. Just a joke…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I have a variety of scene ready for a few months down the road, when Bucky has been in the Tower for a while. Then, I realized...I got nothing for the in-between space (oh poop) and this came to me. Thus feel free to prompt other things for me to fill the interim. As always, thank-you for reading and comments are appreciated.


	21. That Went Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It could have gone worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> justanotherbrucebannerfan, I thought of you and parts of this came up when I was writing this. I regret nothing.

The yelling and breaking glass resounds, echoes in the huge area. Metal grinds, breaks, small explosions are guns going off, and _fuck_ if he doesn’t mentally go back to the goddamned Humvee with ricochets and blood and screaming and _where the fuck are they shooting from_ … in the important second, he freezes, going back there watching that young kid (Sergeant Julio Ameto, he has a _name_ ) stepping out of the ride and to his death. God, they all died because--

Steve is yelling, dodging, shoving Clint (plate still in hand) over the island to get him the hell out of the way while spinning around to put his body between the chaos and Wanda.

He jerks back to himself when shards of a flying plate skim over his face, “STOP!” he tries yelling, covering his head from more breaking glass and porcelain, turning so the glittering shower hits his back and shoulders.  While he’s turned, an arm around him bodily picks him up, _throws_ him over the couch and out of the way of any cross fire. He only knows the arm that picked him up was metal by the way it shoved into his ribs without any give.

Thor is moving to put himself in the center, hammer left on the island so he doesn’t actually _hurt_ anyone (and he can see how bad this could get, but there would be no _need_ for such violence if they would all calm themselves), but all the strength and prowess in the world is no match for the fast and furious rain of blows that come at him from out of nowhere. Like watching a horror movie scene, the God takes several blows to the face and chest, ones meant to kill a normal human being. Luckily, the God is a seasoned fighter, moves his feet to make sure the blows aren’t hitting major soft spots, even allowing his armor to take some of the damage (which is impressive by the snaps in the plating). He manages to block a few and even pulls his strength back on the ones that land successfully (because the man is mortal after all).

The upper cut, however, makes him stagger back an important step, and the fight is _on_.

Steve jumps in, putting himself in front of the dazed God rubbing his aching jaw, but his outstretched wrist is grabbed by that metal fist and he’s airborne, arms pin wheeling as he lands on the upper balcony, air rushing out of his lungs on impact. He skids under one of the tables, knocking the darn thing over on him along with everything on it.

Clint, no arrows or bow _because they’re in the fucking Tower so why carry that shit_ , is still making ferocious attempts at using any goddamned thing on hand from his now perch behind the island. A few of the plates hit the mark right on, as did several pieces of silverware including sharp knives (not the ones he’s holding onto at the moment for the eventual face-to-face when the asshole’s back is turned—which is now). He dives out and down with both feet striking the mid-back, his intent to break something important. That fucking metal hand has a hold of his ankle as he strikes, swinging him off balance even as the bastard is going down. At least, he lands both knives in that metal arm somewhere important. A shower of sparks sends him on his way into the air right into Thor’s chest.

The Black Widow dives out of her hiding spot, already re-loaded and her face so fiercely angry and very _not_ her usual empty calmness when it comes to a mission. This, the assassin of legend is in her _home_ , is facing _her people_. Instinct more than training kicks in, something more profound and deeply embedded than the Red Room rote. She isn’t paying any attention to the yelling, to where Steve might have landed, to Tony calling out to her, to Bruce or Clint, to Wanda’s wide eyes and outstretched hand.

In the small space behind her eyes, behind her awareness of the next move, she sees the silhouette in the snowy backdrop; she knows when the gun went off, when the lead went through her. Back then, she didn’t have time for him, to go after him. But now, today, in the space that  has been given to her (a gift), her eyes are all for _him_. And damned if he is going to get anyone else that’s _hers to protect._

They meet in the center of the room, destruction and debris all around them, and neither even flinch at the offense. She’s in the air while firing, distracting him to block the shells with the malfunctioning arm while her legs clamp over his throat, her hips twisting to throw them both to the ground.  She bares her teeth, spitting Russian curses at him while her thighs tighten, cutting off his air with vicious intent. The muscles of her thighs don’t even twinge at the effort.

“ _None of them! You get NONE of them!”_ She screams in his face, her native tongue replacing English before she realizes; her Bites spark with just a flex of her wrists, the automatic pointed right in his face. No chances, she isn’t going to give him an opportunity to hurt anyone. The man of her nightmares, her fear.

“ _There is no mission!_ ” He tries to snarl back in the mother tongue with the air he has left, hands already curling around her leg. The grey eyes are colder than the heart of winter; she sees it in him, the emptiness, the abyss of a honed weapon. She’d seen the same look in the mirror.

His body arches, hips swiveling, lifting them both off the ground, and he’s on his feet with her legs still wrapped around his throat and shoulders. She isn’t letting him go. Oh _hell_ no. He’s going to have to rip her legs off to get free.

“Mother ** _fucker_** ,” Clint is finally off Thor, bounding up and over, swinging low enough to scoop up Nat’s other automatic, palming it with intimate knowledge. He’s just a little too late.

Two massive hands latch onto the combatants, wrenching them apart with a noise that makes something low in him clench, prepare for the fight of his life.

That hand wraps completely around his upper body with the promise to crush the life from him, to make his bones no more than shards in a pool of skin and crushed viscera. He’s facing eyes greener than any jade, a face that is snarling in the promise of **_pain_**. The Hulk rears back an inth and opens up wide to let loose a ROAR, a _how dare you lay a hand **on her** , Hulk will SMASH YOUR FACE INTO NOTHING_.

But, the Soldier, the fighter, still pushes his arms against the fingers holding him, straining to get free.

“That’s _fucking enough_!” Tony’s tone is enough to get all three heads to swivel around to him. He’s hunched over himself, blood making a slow trail down the side of his face, right arm holding the left one up. The Soldier’s eyes narrow, teeth baring in a snarl while that grey gaze twists into something more _dangerous_ while raking in Stark’s form. Wanda moves unconsciously to stand slightly in front of Tony, arms at her sides; her eyes are all also for the three caught up in the passion of the fight, their blood still pumping hot.

Not even phased with the whole lot of killing vibe coming from that part of the room, Tony leans against Wanda’s back slightly, shouting over her shoulder, “god _dammit_ , Widow, Big Guy, I _invited_ Jim Barnes to stay in the Tower! He’s here because I _let him in_ , okay? No killing, no missions, no contracts, nothing. Steve brought him up to _meet everyone_.”

But, the Scarlet Witch has eyes only for the machine—the one with dead eyes. She has seen this before, in the war-torn corners of her home when all hope is lost, when the fighters are no more than able to think than simply take orders. She has had her time dancing under Hydra’s terrible song, and if the files are correct, this man is another one of their experimental atrocities, made more broken than when the USSR handed him over for an exorbitant sum. She understands his instinct to attack, to defend; it is part of her as well, and the least she can do is _try_ for his sake.

With a breath, she stares him down, one arm still curling around to find purchase on Tony’s hip. “You have miscalculated the mission, Asset.”

With that, the soldier stops fighting against the Hulk’s grip, instead, turning those frightening eyes to her. Thor moves to stand on his other side, also watching the soldier try to puzzle out the situation; he discreetly slides an arm around Tony’s back while the other stretches out should he need to call the hammer to his side. Hawkeye, however, hasn’t moved from his perch, eyes not leaving the scene (waiting for the wrong twitch), and finger on the trigger.

“We,” her free hand gestures to the room, “are the Captain’s team. He is also _our_ Handler.”

From the balcony above, the ripping of metal comes with Steve’s straining voice, “Wanda, don’t tell him that!”

She rolls her eyes and looks over at Thor, gives a nod to the balcony before calling out, “it is how he must _understand,_ Captain! He has no enemies here, no _mission_. We are no threat to him because we are also under your command.”  Thor takes the steps two at a time toward Steve's voice.

“Speak for yourself!” Tony snarks, his forehead now on her shoulder when his fucking arm twinges, but, winning, because some of the tension breaks.

“I also speak for you,” she grins a little, “sometimes you follow directions, Tony.”

He scoffs but doesn’t raise his head, “well, where the fun in _that_?”

Finally, still in the grip of the Hulk, the Asset has some of the needed data (if the Captain is also the Handler, they would assume him here to complete the previous mission; of course they would attack to protect him), “Captain Steven Grant Rogers is the Handler.”

Wanda nods gently, “yes. This is correct. He is not the same type of Handler to which you are accustomed. The Captain is in charge when we move into battle, for there is not _always_ a mission.”

The Soldier blinks and slowly repeats, “during the mission, Captain Steven Grant Rogers is the Handler.”

Said Captain is finally coming back down the stairs from the balcony with Thor pacing behind him. In one hand, he has a lump of twisted metal that he casually throws over the side of the railing (ignoring the flinch at the sound of metal clanging because _really_ , he hasn’t tossed any appliances in the garbage disposal in _weeks_ , Tony) as his eyes take in the scene because _damn, the Hulk is still looking pretty murderous_.

“Yes.” Wanda's tight muscles ease an iota and she feverently wishes for Vision.

“Tony Stark, designation Iron Man; Natasha Romanoff, designation the Black Widow; Thor Odinson, no designation; Clint Barton, designation Hawkeye; Bruce Banner, designation The Hulk, Sam Wilson, designation Falcon; The Vision, no designation are Assets to the Captain.” Slowly, as if puzzling out a mystery, he rattles off the conclusion.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest and sighs, not looking happy with the way this explanation is going, “I’m the fella that comes up with the plans, Buck. That’s all.”

Wanda’s brows arch at him and her expression clearly means for him to just _shut the hell up, the situation is being handled_ , “Asset, during the mission, yes, we are under the Captain’s command. However, when there is no mission, we are free to do as we like.”

Those brows furrow at the mention of _free to do as we like_ as if he is thinking of the echo from the workshop: **try to do things you _want_  to do and maybe  _like_  to do**.

 “The Asset…does not understand.” Because there is always a mission. At this, the Hulk straightens a little at the childlike quality of this exchange, big head turning to Widow who is (again) nestled in the crook of his elbow. She gently lays her palm on his shoulder, trying to convey him to just stay calm without saying it and giving something important away to the Winter Soldier.

Wanda just shrugs the shoulder Tony isn't resting his forehead on, “you will be staying with us, so you will observe this occurrence soon enough. Then, you may gather the data to make a proper assessment and act accordingly.”

Slightly, Stark finally straightens, “hey Red Dawn, we kind of went over it, okay? Just, don’t try killing anyone and no one will try to kill you. Can we just agree on that point for now? Super spies? Point Break? Big Guy? Help me out on this, okay?” He hisses out a breath when he moves beside Wanda and his arm gives another bout of pain and every head in the room swivels to him because Tony Stark _didn't_ show pain.

The Soldier’ eyes narrow; with an abrupt surge of strength, he forces the Hulk’s fist open and drops down to a crouch.  The normal deadly grace in every movement, the Soldier is by the mechanic as Wanda turns to him, realizes he’s not _fine_. Metal fingers prodding the injured arm with narrow eyes.

He addresses Wanda and Steve, “the Mechanic has a dislocated shoulder. Diagnosis as non-functional.”

Tony rolls his eyes, giving the Soldier a patient look, “well, yeah, Red Dawn, I landed wrong when someone _threw_ me, you know? We had this talk, remember? Who’s the super soldier?”

“Steven Grant Rogers is the Super Soldier.” The Asset parrots back obediently while his metal hand grips the bad arm at the elbow, helping to ease the pressure. The remaining Avengers are exchanging looks at this super assassin obviously assessing the injury to their Iron Man and the danger seems to have passed.

Very gently, the Hulk eases Natasha down to her feet, looking down at her with concern.  She blinks up at him and suddenly gives him a genuine smile. The huge finger gently strokes down her cheek as the big face breaks out in a smile, a small, almost shy one.

“Got it in one, and how much faster are his reflexes?”

“Estimate: approximately three times,” the eyes take in the odd shape of the dislocation, fingers gently prodding and earning small pained noises. Wanda, on his good side, moves to wrap an arm around his waist.

“Yup, so it’s not your fault, but I landed wrong, so—“

“The Mechanic needed to be out of the cross fire.” Is the only explanation he’s going to get. “Probability of fatal injury: 67%.”

Cool fingers on his chin turns Tony’s face to Nat and her eyes rake in the blood on his temple. “Tony, how many fingers?” Four wave in front of him.

“Four, and no, no concussion. Score, right? I think I just got hit by a flying plate or something, so no big deal.” Clint abruptly starts whistling and looking up at the _impressive_  skyline that didn’t take any damage while Nat just hums under her breath. Her fingers prod the other injury, her gaze moving to look at the glass still catching in his long-sleeved shirt. She and Wanda exchange **that look**.

While he’s distracted not watching Nat and Wanda mother-hen, the Soldier winds the bad arm in a complicated pattern around his shoulders, “Tony Stark?”

“Yeah, Red Dawn?” He looks over.

The metal hand points the other way, “incoming.”

Nat, Wanda, and Tony’s gazes snap over toward the windows and the Soldier steps out, moves while he jerks the arm back into place.

The abrupt pain makes Tony cry out, eyes wide with surprise. His knees automatically want to give out when both the Soldier and Wanda hold him up between them.

Over his head, the Soldier speaks softly to Nat in Russian, the language rolling off his tongue in fast-paced emphasis. Her eyes narrow before she gives a tight-lipped nod in agreement and the they begin to move. One of the Soldier’s arms helps Wanda maneuver Tony to one of the high stools at the island while the other holds his injured arm in place. Widow helps Tony up on the high stool and glances at the big guy over her shoulder, the expression obviously  _we need Bruce_. Once they have him seated, the Soldier turns to her again, another quick succession of Russian, and she makes a vague gesture with her reply.

The Hulk is glaring at the dangerous man’s back, waiting for just _one_ wrong move but finally huffs in annoyance.

Clint, still crouched on top the island with eyes tracking the guy, moves with him as the Soldier opens that cabinet under the kitchen sink and pulls out the absurdly big First Aid kit (because, you know _team full of accident prone assholes_ ) and lays it out beside the sink; he gathers the supplies that are needed _only_  . The two work in silence as the Soldier soaks cotton balls in antiseptic and hands it to her to use on Stark’s gash under Clint’s watchful eye and the others converge. 

Bruce takes a deep, clean breath and keeps to his feet. It’s becoming easier for him to make the transition (emergency medical situations, _Steve_ , notwithstanding) when he and the Other Guy are on the same page. Or, well, when Nat gives the Big Guy that _look_ , the one that makes him all bashful at the back of Bruce’s brain. So, he can move around the group of Avengers surrounding Tony with the debris from a pretty good tussle around them and go to the scary assassin guy to get what he’d need out of the First Aid kit.

First thing’s first.

“Bruce Banner,” holding up his pants, Bruce holds out a hand and the Soldier cocks a head to the side, confusion sliding over his expression, before he unsteadily takes it. Bruce takes that opportunity to pull the dangerous assassin in closer while the others are far away enough not to hear (except maybe Steve).

“The Other Guy you met is The Hulk, and just so you know, he and I agree on one thing. If she _ever_ gets another scar from you, then I’m going to let him come out and play. I get that you’re a scary assassin guy that’s the stuff of legends, but the other guy can fight for a week straight and never stop. He’s broken enough cities that I’m pretty confident he can take you down without straining too hard.” Banner’s eyes flicker bright green and there, the Soldier can see the beast behind the man. “So, do everyone a favor and don’t lay a hand on her.”

The Asset just blinks at him, those grey eyes still empty and frightening like ‘no one’s home, sorry.’ And…Bruce isn’t scared off, not because of the Hulk having his proverbial back, but because he knows someone else that has eyes that go that empty. Bruce just takes a pair of gloves and a package of sterile thread, wandering back over to the bloody mechanic, grinning as the group seems to just part like the Red Sea and let him wade through.

Nat gently clears her throat and grips the wad of material in his hand, basically holding up his pants for him so he can get the gloves on while Thor makes a tisking sound at Tony and peels opens the package, being careful absurdly not to contaminate the supplies. Steve lays a gentle hand on Tony’s good shoulder and squeezes before going to stand by the Winter Soldier and assure that he, too, is okay.

Shaking his head gently (earning a ‘tsk’ from Nat), Tony glances over his shoulder and grins at the Soldier standing eerily still, “well, considering who we are and we do, that actually went well.”

**

Much later, after the team decided to use Tony’s floor as the gathering spot for food and movies (because _no Sam, no one wants to play Uno tonight, just stop_ ), inviting the Winter Soldier to “gather data” about these neat things he can do like the rest of the team, U, Butterfingers, and DUM-E are making sad beeping sounds while wheeling around the communal floor, cleaning up some of the mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is fast and furious (and probably full of mistakes, so help anyone? Beta...?), but I wanted to start working on the idea from Pirategal90, and I just haven't had the time (single, working Mommy *sigh*). Also, well... "Fracture" has been invading my brain pan and DEMANDING time. But, I hope it was still pretty good because, yeah. Thanks again for reading and putting up with my nonsense.


	22. Drabble: Bad Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because sometimes, someone else can kind of understand.

He hadn’t been in Stark’s Tower for long. Only a few weeks, but it was a few weeks of being locked inside, suffocating, chest aching, lungs trying to breathe…

He’s on Steve’s floor while Steve is away on a mission for Coulson, Nat and Clint are with him because he wanted Stevie to have good back-up and the red head would make sure he came back. She was good to be on his left. She would always make sure he came back. He would come back. He would.

Jim clenches his teeth, and the slideshow of pain is in front of his eyes again. He gasps, feeling the arch of blood spray all over his face again like it had the first time. There’s no weapon in his hand but he can literally feel the butt of the .45 in his palm. His arm strains not to raise up, to point at the mission, to make the mission (the person, for fuck’s sakes, they’re all people) complete…

He wants to scream. Maybe he is, but no one is there to hear it.

The next one, the older lady hiding out in Dubai had grandchildren for fuck’s sake. She didn’t try fighting or running once the Soldier found her. She sat in her little home and smiled up at him when he put two in her brain pan. She looked so peaceful, accepting of her fate. She didn’t hate him for doing what he’d been forced to do.

Then, he’s cutting the brakes on Howard’s car before he and Maria went off to the gala. He had to make it look like an accident; Howard was too well-known for it to be an assassination. The Soldier stuck around long enough (hiding in the shadows) for the coppers to show, their teenage son stumbling out of the back of the cruiser. The young Tony, wide-eyed and disheveled, staring at the wreckage in horror. Tony, Jesus, that’s Tony…that poor kid.

Then he’s off the ice again, hunting the next…

The programming snaps, alerted by breathing, heart beating in vicinity.

Ruthlessly, he pulls a knife before he even becomes aware of his surroundings. He forgot, he’s crouched in a corner of Steve’s living room, niched himself between the wall and the display case with the old uniform folded inside. A few feet away, Sam Wilson is sitting on the floor with his knees up and arms resting on them. The guy is completely calm, just watching him from the distance. He’s not the mission, he’s unarmed, he’s shorter than the Soldier, not as well trained, not on the same level, threat level low…

His voice starts out soft, almost imperceptible, “the images won’t stop. You keep seeing it over and over. It’s in front of you, it’s behind you, to the sides, above and below. You can’t close your eyes because that doesn’t make them stop. It’s like nothing will make it stop.”

For the first time in who knew how long, Jim is listening to something other than screams and programming and weapons check and returning to that god-awful chair. His tight muscles unclench just slightly.

“Sometimes it’s in color, like you’re still there in the moment, doing those things, seeing those things, being that guy. You can’t be anything else in that moment, your brain wants you to—your brain wants to change it, but you just can’t.

Jim gasps in a painful, choking breath and starts blinking rapidly to keep his eyes from overflowing.

“Sometimes, it’s just straight out impressions, like you’re still holding that gun, that knife, that guy with his face blown off. You’re moving in real time but not.” Sam’s eyes are far away, he looking right through James Barnes and into something else, something deeper and grittier. He’s got the guilt in his face, too. The fact he did what he was ordered to do without a choice, without a will of his own.

“And just when you think you’re out of it, like your back in the real world, it comes around again. It takes up all your senses. You just can’t escape it…”

“H-“ Jim’s voice is wrecked, hollow and cracking, “how do you know…?”

Sam blinks slowly, arms tightening around his knees, “been there. Seen it. I volunteer at the VFW and the VA whenever I can. I help other guys with PTSD.”

Other guys….“You--”

“…Yeah. Yeah. When I came back, it was bad. I couldn’t—I didn’t function well out of combat. I forgot what normal was and how to be out. I had to re-learn it over again. I had to…figure it out. I’ve been where you are, when it’s all a jumble in your head.”

Drawing in another choking breath, Jim stutters out, “th-there’s too much. I did too much…”  
“Did you?”  
The question throws him for a second and he’s just staring at Sam with damaged eyes.  
“Was it you? Was it him? Was it Hydra? Who chose to do those things?”  
“I—It was the mission.”  
“Who created the mission?”  
“H-Handlers, Hydra’s Handlers.”

“Then it wasn’t you. It was them making you do it. Soon as you accept that, the closer you come to figuring out your own normal.”

It made a crazy sort of sense to him and the programming. It aligned with what the Winter Soldier already knew; he wouldn’t have moved without orders. He wouldn’t have raised a weapon without dictation. But, it didn’t matter in the long run, it was blood on Bucky Barnes’ hands, it was a river of red that he could never wash clean. He’d be dirty for the rest of his life. Nothing he could do now would help him atone for all those people, all those innocent lives, for Howard and Maria…

He wants to scream, just scream until his throat bleeds…

“I did para-rescue during Desert Storm and in Afghanistan.” Sam’s voice takes on a deeper tone, his eyes averted. “We got order on every drop, no matter what we came down in the middle of. We—we couldn’t save them all, we had to stick to the mission. We had to complete the mission.”

And those words reverberate right into Jim’s brain, slithering down his spine.

“Even if the soldier was too far gone to save, even if the soldier looked like ground-up hamburger, that person was the mission.”

Jim didn’t realize he was moving forward, his hand was just suddenly on Sam’s forearm.

“Our own people would know sometimes, would just want the pick-up because of intel or something else on the body. They’d make us go to be pall bearers. We could have…we should have tried to—but, the mission had to come first.” Sam’s eyes finally lost the thousand-yard stare, the same one Jim and Steve had when they were deep in the past. Sam’s eyes focused on him again.

“So, it’s okay to put the responsibility right on the shoulders of who it belongs to. That kind of weight doesn’t belong on you, doesn’t belong on me, or any of the other vets. It’s on the big guys calling the shots, the guys that make the missions. You picking up what I’m laying down, man?”

His throat tight, all Jim can do is nod.

“Good. Good.” Sam runs a hand down his face. “Then come on, I’ve got Uno downstairs and some left over Chinese.”

Jim lets got of his arm when he stands but is taken back when Sam extends the arm back down and offers him a hand. It’s a moment of truth, or trust. While he’s in this vulnerable position, Jim could slam a knife home right in his gut, drawing it up to make his viscera spill out; he could take the other guy down without a sound, without working hard for it. The light in Sam’s eyes seems to say he already knows it, but he’s trusting the Winter Soldier not to eviscerate him and take the damn hand.

“I—I don’t know what ‘Uno’ is.”

Finally, a grin breaks out over his face, “then c’mon and let me show you. It’s the best card game, ever. Don’t let Steve tell you different, he’s a fool.”

Decision made, Jim accepts the hand and lets Sam Wilson pull him up.  
**  
Steve is tired as hell but he’s already showered and is down on the communal floor with the fridge open. He’s wondering now if Stark was right after all; he feels like he can eat a truck load without stopping. Luckily, Bruce is a great fella and made a whole pan of lasagna with a post-it note that had his name on it. The whole pan. There’s a big bowl of salad too. Steve is absurdly grateful some of the others can cook while he’s away or else Tony’d have them living off take-out food.

He fumbles with the oven, different than the one upstairs, and finally gets it on 350 degrees (after he broke the toaster by casually throwing it in the garbage disposal in a pique, Tony gave him a heck of a lecture on treatment of electronics—the next day he put tin foil in the microwave and waited for Tony with a grin, his ‘aw shucks, didn’t know it would do that on purpose Tony’ face) and slides the pan in. He takes the salad out, humming in appreciation.

“Hey, gal?”  
“Yes, Steve?” F.R.I.D.A.Y immediately responds.  
“Can you thank Bruce for me? I’m starving something fierce and it was nice of him to think of me.”  
“Certainly, Steve. The Doctor is…occupied, but once he is accepting messages again, I will give him your gratitude.”  
Gulp. It wasn’t any of his business, he was staying out of it this time. “Ah, thanks. Could you also see if Bucky’s eaten and if he wants to come down and get some dinner?”  
“…Sergeant Barnes has eaten, Steve. He is currently with Sam.”  
Steve grins, mixing the salad, “good. I’m glad he’s making friends.”  
“He had a bit of an episode, and Sam talked him out of it, Steve. You may want to visit when you can.”

The blonde head comes up immediately, salad tongs dropped. “Open a direct line, F.R.I.D.A.Y.” His chest compresses, aches like when he was a little guy and had asthma that made everything feel tight all over.

A moment and Buck’s voice came over the line, “hey Stevie. You got back okay.”  
Steve lets out the breath he was holding, “yup. Just getting some food. Bruce left lasagna and salad, you already eat?”  
“…M’ good.”  
The voice sounds relaxed, not stressed, and Steve feels the knot ease. The past few weeks have been rough for them both. “Okay, Buck. I’ll be done soon, then maybe we can check out those Terminator movies Clint was talking about.”  
“Sounds good. I’ll bring Sam along to make popcorn.”

A heavy sigh lifts his chest. The memories would take their time in coming back if they did at all, or so the Professor had told them once the telepath had explicitly made sure Buck understood that he would in no way invade his mind unless he had 100% agreement from the former assassin. That had put Buck more at comfort than Steve could offer at the time; he wouldn’t be forced into getting help, he would have a choice on whether or not he could stomach Xavier digging around in his head. Of course, there were always dangers to it, as Steve explained to the enhanced doctor, since the Winter Soldier programming could be triggered by so many things that Xavier himself was in danger if he was in close vicinity. Steve was sure he could get to Bucky before he could do much damage, but Steve wouldn’t feel right letting Xavier know the risks to helping them.

Charles had gotten this little smile on his face and assured them he would be vigilant, would be able to shut Bucky’s mind down should he feel the least bit unsafe.

After what seemed like hours, Xavier and Bucky both looking empty, wrung out, Charles had given them a positive prognosis on the return of memory; the multiple wipes had been, in essence, Hydra’s way of erasing memories that constantly regenerated with the serum’s healing properties. Putting Bucky on ice so many times also stinted the process, but now that he’d been out of deep freeze for a few months (not to mention his metabolism was finally stabilizing now that he could actually eat real food), the serum was kicking up in intensity, the neural connection to his memories regenerating at a fantastic rate. However, this was not to say he would regain 100% of what he’d lost, and Charles’ face had been deeply sad for the both of them when he said it would be highly probably large parts of Bucky’s life would remain lost. That meant he may never remember those times that…Xavier had picked up on Steve’s thought and patted his hand gently in empathy.

I won’t get back what I lost, but that’s okay. I’ve got him back as my best friend and that’s better than not having him at all.

Steve blinks and realizes the oven timer is going off. He finds hot pads to take the lasagna out and doesn’t even bother with a plate. No need, he’d eat what he want and put the rest back in for one of Tony or Clint’s midnight raids.

He eats like he always did in the Army, fast and clean, trying to think about the food and not like half his heart would always be missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gahh, I'm working on a more complex part to this but I just want to post what I already have done *crying*


	23. The Asset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset's Point of View of integration in the Avenger's Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pirategal90, this was harder than I anticipated. Sorry it took so long.

Day 5

The Handler remains secure. The Other is able to meet the Handler's team without intervention from the Asset. He was made aware of the prior events by the Mechanic, Tony Stark. He was angry and apologized to the Handler's team for the Asset's actions. The Asset maintains these actions necessary to complete the current Mission until another is given. The Other does not agree.

The Mechanic’s shoulder has not completed restoration to functional, but regardless of injury, he has advised the Other he would prefer to build a bionic arm out of lighter materials and requests input on the arm’s current abilities. The Asset agrees with the Other’s assessments and requirements; the current arm restricts fighting capabilities by 23%.

The Handler’s team does not pose an immediate threat; to gauge full threat level, the Asset will gather more data. Until then, the Asset enters stasis; the Other takes his place.

 

Day 6

The Handler remains secure if not frustrated. Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, has accepted a mission for The Director while previous injury hinders his capabilities by an estimated 19.5%. The Handler argued with Clint Barton on the Communal Floor for 17 minutes to no avail. Further, the Mechanic, Tony Stark, refuses to do necessary maintenance to maintain full functionality. His denial of the need to enter stasis or consume calories is a concern for the Handler and the rest of the inhabitants. Most of them monitor him covertly. He has been functioning for 51 hours, 37 minutes.

Most watchful over the Asset's movement is the Black Widow, as expected. Approximately four years have passed since the previous interaction. In this time, the Widow has improved aim 15%, maneuverability 21%, stamina 40%. The Asset estimates her as a 68% threat. Weaknesses: the Avengers. Thus far she has shown no indication of threat to the Handler.

When in residence, Clint Barton, assessed as threat level 43%. Also maintains close observation of the Asset. Strength: stealth, adaptation to surroundings, sharp shooting. Weaknesses: Director of SSARAS. Barton maintains close watch of the Director, follows closely whenever the Director is in proximity. The Asset assumes the Director is his other Handler aside from Steven Grant Rogers.

Thor Odinson, no alias known. No information on preferred fighting style, weapon of choice, Hammer. Threat level assessed 45% based on unknown probability. Odinson speaks loudly, consumes calories without care. Weaknesses: Jane Foster.

Wanda Maximoff, alias Scarlet Witch. Meta-human, telepathic capability; is noticeably without full control, probability of adverse reaction to stressors, 80%. Common activities include reading, training, and "Pinning." The Asset has no data on 'Pinterest.' Threat level: 51%. Weakness: Strawberries, data still pending.

Samuel Wilson, known as Falcon. Previous data from prior altercation maintains threat level as 35%. Current estimate valid until new information is presented.

Bruce Banner, threat level 0%. Entity known as The Hulk, threat level 90%. Weaknesses: The Black Widow.

The Asset allows stasis. The Other takes his place.

 

Day 10

The Handler remains secure. The Other is compromised. Without consistent eradication of previous data, the Other is experiencing neural regeneration. These synapsis allow both the Asset and the Other to regain previously lost data in increments; parts of the recovered data is from the life of the Other before integration into the KGB and causes the Other to become inoperable.  Data recovered from previous missions assigned to the Asset cause strain as the Other does not accept the need for completing the mission during required the time frame, self-recriminations and the term ‘murderer’ are his equation. The Asset denies these allegations. The Asset reminds the Other that mission must be completed or another would be dispersed; the Asset reminds the Other of the programming requirements.

The Other is not appeased. The Handler also does not consent to the Other’s error in calculation and is vocal with the Other in arguing his point; as he is the Handler, the Asset obeys; the Other does not.

 

Day 12

The Mechanic, Tony Stark, had completed construction of a new appendage. His shoulder is sufficiently healed for returned mobility on Day 6; he began fabrication by Day 9. The Mechanic, Tony Stark, required the Asset specifically in his workshop to display and explain this technology. The Handler accompanied the Asset to make certain the Asset would cause no damage to the Mechanic. The Asset assured the Handler there would be no need to cause the Mechanic (the Asset was corrected, 'Tony, just Tony, say it, To-ony') damage unless he violated the mission.

 A 'scan' of the arm was completed by 'Tony' to further educate on the construction and composition, naming all materials used, comparison of functionality, new capabilities, notable differences, and what the Asset should expect when the appendage is attached.

 Strange: ‘Tony,’ requested the Asset's approval of the design and construction, then refused attachment of the arm until the Asset gave express consent. The Asset does not understand this phenomenon or why consent is crucial for the Mechanic to perform his functions. The Assert will pend further judgment for more analysis.

The Asset allowed stasis. The Other takes his place.

 

Day 17

The Handler remain secure.

Tony does not enter stasis in accordance to normal rituals. The Host and the Asset have been in his workshop on Day 12 and Day 13 when the Handler has not maintained proper stasis during night hours.

Tony has advised the Other and the Asset that he works well at night and usually has many projects at one time. The Asset inquired to the nature of his current projects. Tony brought up several projection and detailed the purpose and current composition. He holds back nothing, unlike previous Handlers, such as Alexander Pierce. The Asset waits for inconsistencies. Everyone lies.

 

Day 22

The Handler remains secure. The Asset is permitted in the gym when his memories of previous missions begin to regenerate at faster intervals; more complete strains of memory. Since the wiping process and cryogenic storage are no longer routine, the Asset is beginning to regain data… Including more data that belongs to the Other. The Asset does not fully understand the nature of the relationship between the Other and the Handler; however, the Other is caused pain when the memories of this previous time span returns.

The Other is temporarily comforted when one of the Handler’s team requests his assistance for training. The Asset has not been given permission to take part in the Handler’s training sessions but has been assured he must have sessions with the Handler only before he can be cleared for team exercises. The Asset requested to know why; the Handler does not use lethal methods during training and must gauge the Asset’s range capabilities first to determine which team member he will be allowed to assist. The Asset accepts this assessment. Later, however, the Asset is admitted into Tony’s workshop and is permitted to request more information on this denial. The Handler has fought the Asset and is knowledgeable in his capabilities and should have allowed the Asset to train for the most optimal lessons.

Tony, answered this query accordingly.

“Cap needs the rest of the team to _trust_ you before he can throw you in the ring. Once everyone else doesn’t see you as a threat, then they can actually learn something from you. Give it time, Red Dawn.”

The Asset understands this logic and expresses gratitude to Tony for the explanation. In exchange, Tony allows the Asset to remain in the workshop and hold various parts for the re-build effort of a 1937 Harley Davidson Flathead.

Once Tony leaves the workshop at dawn for stasis, the Asset also allows stasis. The Other takes his place.

 

Day 35

The Asset does not know if the Handler, Steven Grant Rogers, Designation: Captain America, is secure. The Handler has been given a mission by The Director; the Asset has not been allowed to accompany him. The Asset must remain in the Tower and will follow this order; however, the Asset and the Other are compromised by not knowing the status of the Handler, _Steve_.

The Other attempts to complete mundane activities: creating sustenance, pleating the Handler’s cloth into what the Other deems as an acceptable pattern, viewing extended pictures with a maintained plot. Thor Odinson has offered to spar with the Asset while the Handler is absent; however, the Asset could not break protocol until given express permission. Thor Odinson understood and offered instead to assist the Asset with individual training. The Asset accepted.

At nightfall, the Asset returned to Tony’s workshop and was admitted. The Asset was allowed to assist in another project and was then set up to view a series of videos described by Tony as “You Tube’s Greatest Hits.” The majority of these are strange to the Asset, but data on common interactions, cultural nomenclatures, and presented social phenomena is still collected. Even though Tony did not enter statsis, the Asset did and allowed the Other to take his place.

 

Day 40

The Asset does not know if Steven Grant Rogers is secure and is experience anxiety similar to the Other. The Asset has not left the floor of Steven Grant Rogers, the Other has not attempted to regain control.

 

Day 43

The Asset does not know if Steve is secure. The Other is experiencing flashbacks in rapid succession. The Asset and the Other are compromised. Tony has left the Tower to complete operations and maintenances of his business; Thor Odinson has left to be in the company of Jane Foster in Arizona.

Sam Wilson, Designation The Falcon, is able to restore functionality to the Other.

At nineteen hundred hours, Steve has returned to the Tower; observation by the Other assures he sustained no damage. The Asset can enter stasis, the Other takes his place.

 

Day 51

Steve is secure. His attempt at making omelets is a failure. The Other consumes it regardless.

The Asset accompanies Steve to the gym with the prospect of being allowed to spar with two members of the team; both of which Steve deems will benefit from the Asset’s knowledge the most. 

Tony and Wanda Maximoff are the two chosen. The Asset is…concerned with this choice and voices this to Steve. He is given the explanation, “you’re going to try  _teaching_ Tony and Wanda how to defend themselves better in hand-to-hand, Bucky,” (The Asset is not  _Bucky_ ), “that’s what I want you to keep in mind while we’re going through this exercise, okay? The point is not to get the best of them, but to make sure they know where their weaknesses are and how to compensate for them.”

The Asset faces Tony first and reduces speed, strength, and reaction time by 61% to begin. This reduction would be adjusted based on new data. With this percentage, the Asset is still able to dodge offensive measures. As requested, the Asset emphasizes weakness in fighting stance by use of jabs reduced 90%. Tony immediately compensates.

The Asset does not injure Tony for the duration of the exercise. The Asset is satisfied.

With Wanda Maximoff, the Asset reduces speed, strength, and reaction time by 85%. This is a miscalculation. The Asset experiences pain in his abdomen, back, neck, and legs after the training session is complete. He is accompanied by Steve, Tony, and Wanda Maximoff to the medical floor of Avenger’s Tower to assure functionality.

The Asset allows stasis. The Other takes his place.

 

Day 61

Steve is still secure. The Asset attended the second team meeting the group has requested of him; the subject is a meta-human doctor, Professor Charles Xavier, Designation: Professor X, Leader and Founder of the X-Men, and his visit to the Avenger’s Tower.

Bruce Banner is candid in his explanation of Professor Xavier’s specific telepathic abilities. The Asset has allowed Dr. Banner’s request of brain scans to ascertain how much of his mental capacity has regenerated; however, with the limitation on his equipment, he has been able to gather little data. As Dr. Banner is a colleague of Dr. Henry McCoy of the X-Men, Dr. Banner requests if the Asset would consent to meeting Professor Xavier.

 Again, the Asset is given a choice. Dr. Banner assures it would be a meeting to gauge whether or not Professor Xavier’s capabilities could yield more relevant data.

 Steve refused to give orders on what decision the Asset should make. Tony refused to give any opinions. The Asset consents to the meeting. The entire team smiles at the Asset’s decision. It is…not discerning. The team seems genuine.

Once Steve has entered stasis, the Asset is in Tony’s workshop to watch more pictures with plot and assist with any projects he is able. Tony approves of his decision, assures he and Steve will be present for the entire meeting in case the Asset becomes emotionally compromised. The Asset appreciates this assurance.

 

Day 65

Steve is secure and, along with the rest of the Avenger’s team, is with the Asset when Professor Xavier arrives at Avenger’s Tower. Tony meets the Professor in the lobby as well as his entourage of students consisting of Dr. Henry McCoy (alias: Beast), Jean Grey (alias: The Phoenix), Ororo Munroe (alias: Storm), and James Howlette (alias: Wolverine), members of the team known as the X-Men.

 The Asset has no memories of dealing with these meta-humans; however, James Howlette displays recognition of the Asset and Steve.

 “Can I still call you, Logan?” Steve is smiling when he’s shaking the meta-human’s hand.

“Cap, you can call me anythin’ but late fer dinner. Glad to see you made it outta that ice.” The Wolverine assess the Asset. “Jim? Jim, you remember me at all?”

Unfortunately, the Asset cannot. The Other has no memory recall of James Howlette.

“Hydra sons of bitches.” The Wolverine takes initiative in shaking the Asset’s hand, “I was transferred to the Invaders for a short stint back in WWII, bub. You were the guy that kept Nazis off m’back in Madripoor. Always said you were a helluva shot, kid.”

 The Asset files this data for later analysis. “The Asset has a 95.7% success rate with long rage shots.”

The Wolverine smiles, “I think old Chuck might be able to help you remember those days a little better. Just let ‘im talk to ya for a while.” The Wolverine does not say anything further.

Tony allows the Professor to assess the Asset in his workshop where he, Steve, Ororo Munroe, and Jean Grey are present for the consultation.

“May I call you James?”

“Sergeant James Buchannon Barnes is the Other. I am the Asset.”

“Ah, I apologize if I have offended you.”

“The Asset is not offended, Professor Charles Xavier.”

“That’s very well. It is not my wish to cause you any discomfort or offense, Asset.”

“The Asset appreciates your concern.”

“Hm, are you comfortable talking to me about the process to erase your memory? How your previous employers were able to remove data from your mind?”

 “The Asset’s previous Handlers utilized electroshock technology to destroy neurological pathways in order to erase memories. With the cryogenic containment completed shortly after this process, they were able to maintain control and functionality over the Asset for the next mission.”

 “I see.”

“The Asset’s previous Handlers were _not_ employers,” the Asset feels Professor Charles Xavier must know this.

 “I would agree with you,” Professor Xavier leans toward the Asset from his wheelchair, “in fact, I would say these Handlers were some of the worst of men, and I am very relieved you were able to escape them.”

 “The…the wiping process did not complete memory loss after the helicarrier failure in Washington, D.C.,” the Asset is able to admit, “the Asset and the Other were able to maintain memories of the current Handler, Captain Steven Grant Rogers, Designation: Captain America.”

 “And this is how you were able to break their hold over you?”

“Yes.”

“You are a remarkable person, Asset.”

And the Asset does not understand this conclusion but does not ask for more information.

“I assume you have already been briefed on my unique _abilities_.”

“Yes, Professor Charles Xavier possesses and innate telepathic ability similar to Wanda Maximoff, Designation: The Scarlet Witch.”

 The Professor agrees with this assessment. “Yes. I have been called the world’s foremost expert on the mind and its capabilities, and I would very much like to help you in assessing how much of your memory has returned. However, I will do nothing without your express consent. Before we can even begin, please ask any questions you may have.”

 “The Asset appreciates that you will take his consent into consideration…currently, the returning memories to both the Asset and the Other cause—compromise.”

 The Professor blinks, “Compromise? How so?”

 “The Other becomes emotionally compromised. The Asset—“ he is uncertain how to express this data. “The Asset previously believed his missions for Hydra as justifiable; however, the Asset no longer believes this to be factual.” Not exactly the correct sentiment, but it is a close enough assessment.

 The Professor nods, “it is perfectly normal that you form your own opinions. Since your mind is healing and you are able to gather more data about the _work_ Hydra had you perform, you are seeing a different picture.”

 “Then,” the Asset must consider the correct phrase, “the Asset has terminated _unjustly_.” Tony sits beside the Asset when this conclusion is spoken aloud.

 The expression expressed by the Professor is identified as _sympathy_ , “that is very possible. Hydra, from my understanding, attempt world domination for those _in their image_ and their image is not for what could be argued as just. They used you in order to try making their goals a reality.”

“The Asset has committed criminal acts if terminations were unjust.”

 The Asset understand why Steve puts a hand to his shoulder (his attempt to relay the notion of _comfort_ ), but the Asset needs confirmation.

 “At the time of these terminations, were you fully aware of Hydra’s intentions for global domination as you are in this current moment?”

 “No, the Asset has collected more data than was provided on any previously assigned mission.”

“Had you all the data you have now, would you still have completed the missions assigned to you?”

 “…Unknown. The Handlers were able to control the Asset with trigger words or phrases to guarantee submission.”

“Then, you do not know if you would have given consent?”

“Correct.”

 “Therefore, at the time of the mission, you were not able to give knowing consent as you were not given a choice to do so?”

 The Asset must consider this logic. “Correct.”

The Professor arches a brow, “then how is it that you have committed criminal acts when you were under Hydra’s ultimatum and without the capabilities of denying their orders?”

 The Asset cannot answer.

“Ah, so you see my point now, yes?”

“This does not change the outcome, Professor Charles Xavier.”

 “No, no it does not. Innocent people are lost and lives will never be the same; however, as I have told my student wrestling with a moral quandary quite similar to yours…free will is the epicenter of the heart, Asset. You must not blame yourself for actions that were not of your own design.”

 The Asset intakes this data…and thanks the Professor for his insight.

 “Now, as I have said, I will not do anything to make you uncomfortable, the Captain and Dr. Stark are here to make certain everything that may happen is with your knowledge and consent.”

 Steve’s hand is again on the Asset’s shoulder, conveying his presence.

“Professor Charles Xavier, what will be done to the Asset?”

 “Very simply, I will enter your mind and assess how much of your memory has returned and whether or not you may have residual effects from Hydra’s brainwashing in your neural net. You will feel my presence in your conscious mind, you will even be able to hear me, speak to me, but I will not harm you.”

 From all physical and visual indications, Professor Charles Xavier is telling the truth. “The Asset gives consent for this process.”

 The Asset should not have given consent.

**

“Please forgive me,” Professor Charles Xavier requests later. “My intention was never—“

“The Asset does not believe…Professor Charles Xavier possessed… harmful motivations—“ The Asset is compromised; the Other is in intense pain; Steve and Tony must hold the Asset standing. James Howlette is now in the workshop.

 “Does this mean there are still, like, what? _Traps in his brain_?” Tony is able to articulate the sentiment.

“This is an accurate assessment, Dr. Stark.” The Professor reaches out the Asset but draws back.

 “Just Tony, okay? No one cares about—whatever. So, this is from the brainwashing.” Tony expels a breath in emotion, he and Steve look at one another.

 “He almost tried to kill us but stopped himself; does that mean he can fight this compulsion?” Steve and Tony help the Asset to sit on a workbench and take in the destruction.

 “Once he was faced with you and Tony,” the Professor is still speaking; the Asset must force himself to understand the data, “he no longer attacked, thus he is able to assert some control over the brainwashing techniques. It is a promising occurrence.”

 The Asset does not have recall of the last ten minutes, forty-two seconds. The Asset recalls Tony’s face, Steve’s hands holding his arms behind his back, and nothing more.

 “Promising is good,” Tony stands three inches by the Asset’s side.

“There are several I was able to discern,” the Professor shows sign of strain, “it will take time to trace each one and disarm the mental traps. If the Asset is comfortable and consenting another time—“

 “I can’t tell you how much we would appreciate your help with this,” Steve fills in, also remaining by the Asset’s side. “Especially after…”

 “He did not harm me, Captain, and I have no doubt he would fight the programming in order to do so, regardless as to how much of a threat I may be.”  The Professor approaches without fear, the Asset estimates his courage as foolish.

 “Asset, how are you feeling?”

“Functional.” This is a lie.

 “Very good.” The Professor is aware of the untruth; however, he does force the Asset to recant. “You did very well when the trap in your mind was triggered by my probing. I estimate you have regained almost 65% of your memories in total. Yours as well as your counterpart, Sergeant Barnes. Over the next six months, you will certainly regain more as the pathways are regenerating.”

 “Will the Asset regain complete recall?”

“That is difficult to say. I am uncertain if you will ever have one hundred percent of your memory considering the nature of your captivity.”

“The Asset appreciates Professor Charles Xavier’s honest assessment.”

 “Of course,” the Professor is smiling, “you will need to recover. When or if you would like me to attempt breaking the traps in your mind, please call, Asset. I would help you should you allow it.”

 “The Asset will coordinate with the Other, Professor Charles Xavier.”

“Absolutely. For now, take your time to become accustomed to the memories you have regained.”

 Once the Professor and the X-Men are gone from Avenger’s Tower, the Asset allows stasis and the other takes his place.

 

Day 73

The Asset understands the concept of “Movie Night.” He does not understand the nature of comedy (even though Tony and Sam Wilson have attempted to explain) or why the team views _Super Troopers_ as worthy of such laughter. The Other is more knowledgeable.

 

Day 96

The Avengers are on a mission; the Other is anxious in regards to their safety; however, Steve and Tony have provided a communication device as well as video monitoring based on cameras located in Hawkeye, Widow, Iron Man, and Falcon’s uniforms.  Observing and talking to them while in action eases both Asset and Other, James Buchannon Barnes.

 While the Avengers are absent from the Tower, the Asset remains in Tony’s workshop with the three non-organic life forms. The Artifical Intelligence, designation, J.J. allows the Other and the Asset to view live feed at Tony’s workbench. The Asset finds…comfort here since he has not been allowed to accompany the Avengers on this mission (even though he presented his logical argument to Steve and Tony four times—his request has been denied). The Asset compiles his data on the villain group, A.I.M to assist the team’s Handler in strategic planning.

 He tells the Asset to ‘shut his trap.’ The Other believes Steve to be hilarious. The Asset is not certain why.

 

Day 105

The mission’s name was Yolanda Rameriz, a county clerk in Bismount, Massachusetts. She had two children under the age of 10. Wanda comes to the gym and stays while the Asset completes several rounds of cardiovascular training. She does not speak, neither does the Asset.

Once training is complete, the Asset agrees to Wanda's invitation of tea on her floor. It is the third time the Asset has been allowed this priviledge; her flower garden is her sanctuary. The Asset tells her of his appreciation.

 

Day 129

The Avengers are secure. The team is accustomed to the Asset as the Asset is to them. Through intense research on breakfast foods, the Asset is able to create omelets and sugar-filled pastries the Avengers prefer.

Clint Barton does not agree with tomatoes added to the omelet mixture. The Asset stores this preference.

 

Day 141

Through neural regeneration, the Other is experiencing what he calls, a _problem_. The Asset does not understand the nature of the emotions and actions of the recalled memories; the Other, however, is moved to act upon them once he believes he has the consent of Steve.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SUPER HARD. I know it's short, but wow, my brain power. Also...I kinda got this little thing in another fandom that I have loved since forever and just never wrote anything for it. So, I'm sorry. I'm posting twice to try and make up for it.


	24. Drabble: Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are having some problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read: EXPLICIT CONTENT, Reader Discretion is advised.

The dreams are haunting him again.

_Tearing off clothes to get as much skin accessible as he can. He **aches** for it, aches for touch, aches to touch, but they have to be quiet, so quiet and careful. That doesn’t deter him. The dark doesn’t either; his fingers still seek out all the buttons and latches to that damn uniform, peeling it off shoulders that are more muscular, down arms that flex under his hands. Shove the rest of it away so his mouth can…_

_The low noise is almost a whine, hands come to his hips, thumbs massaging the indentations._

_“Slow—“_

_He lifts his head enough to whisper, “busy,” before he’s running his mouth down further and sucks. The chest under him arches into the touch._

Jim flings himself up out of bed, sweating and panting. He’s rock hard and trembling, wondering what the fuck he’s… _not dreams, memories. Not a dame._

 _Fuck, it’s Stevie again_.

He groans and lays his face in his hands, that face, that expression passing before his eyes again: _blue eyes hazy with lust, so blown they’re almost black, mouth open so he can pant and groan, lips bitten red, eyes rolling back when Jim hits that spot just right_.

“Shit.” He takes a deep, slow breath and untangles the sheets from his legs, throwing them off. He staggers to the bathroom, his dick aching like crazy while he gets a shower started and strips down; right now, the programming is completely silent, gone from the back of his mind. It doesn’t know what to do with this feeling, with physical _want_ and _need_. It can’t handle that kind of data from his body; injuries, trajectories, target flaws, strategies, and the like, the programming is like a supercomputer. But, a hard cock is like a foreign language.

Jim guffaws at that thought as he climbs in and lets the water hit him on full. The bright side, he supposed, is the fact he can even get a hard-on at all, considering he hadn’t had one the entire time he was in Hydra’s employ. As far as he knows, anyhow. Stark and that professor guy pretty much theorized he had about sixty-five percent memory back—their version of the serum had repaired a huge amount of synapse and neuron damage done by the wipes and cryo, but even the serum couldn’t do it as fast as Steve healed. The Professor had estimated another few months for it to be a hundred percent, if he ever got that much.

What he’s already gained back, however, was giving him some uncomfortable… _problems_. Like the one currently in his hand, the hand that’s moving easy, causing pleasure he’d almost forgotten existed. With the water hitting him just right, his hand slides easier and a noise is pulled from his throat. The metal hand braces against the wall of the shower while he works himself slowly, getting used to the feel of this again, his memories of doing it not holding a candle to touching himself like this. Just having the freedom to do it is whole different kind of high.

“Uh, fuck,” he whispers when his palm runs over the sensitive head and slides back down to the base. Tingles of warmth spread up his spine and his hand speeds up; there’s something he’s chasing by doing this, something good that’s at the end of the line…

_His hands run up the bare back below him, stroking the straining muscles while his hips dance in a circle to make it that much better for… Steve is below him, upper body bare, pants around his ankles and boots still on in case the sirens start and they have to dress fast in the dark. They’re in his tent, the fella bent over his table and he’s so sweet, so warm, so tight, and everything else Jim could ever want._

_The moan is muffled, an undershirt shoved in Steve’s mouth to keep him from screaming, alerting the rest of the camp as to what was doing. It doesn’t stop him from shoving back, taking Jim in to the hilt, and letting out another muffled noise that sounded vaguely like, “stop messing around.”_

_But, even after his first bout with Hydra, Jim still has the snark, he leans over the Captain, “you missed this, babe. You missed me pounding the shit outta you until you come on my cock.” He emphasizes it with a few hard, fast thrusts of his hips, almost pulling all the way out before shoving back in to make sure he hit that spot, the one that always makes his fella keen._

_Steve’s head comes back, moaning out against the temporary gag. The sound of leather tightening makes Jim glance up to make sure his wrists are still secured to the table, ropes he can obviously break, but are there to serve a purpose. The hands are tightening into fists, the gloves creaking with strain and the Sergeant leans down press gentle kisses at the top of his spine and down to contrast the hard pounding he’s giving that perfect ass. His hands are on Steve’s hips, pulling him in to each stroke, biting his lip to keep himself as quiet as possible._

_“God, you feel so good. So perfect, you always have, always do.” He pants harshly, his rhythm faltering, “I’m in love with you, little guy or big guy dunnt matter. Feels just as good ‘cause it’s you.”_

_Muffled, but he can tell, “I love you. I **love** you. Bucky, fill me up. Please God fill me up…”_

_Jim groans, his balls tightening, and the wonderful happens—Steve utters a hoarse cry and gets unbelievable tight, pulsing on the inside when he comes. It’s the best thing **ever** and Jim has to bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming out loud, trying to fuck Steve through it before he finally has to let go and buries in deep, holding those hips against him while his cock pulses and his vision whites out. _

The warm water hits him at the right moment, and he’s coming in his hand, biting his lip to keep from screaming out at his first orgasm in almost seventy years. His eyes blown wide at the sensations coursing through his body, his back hits the wall and he slides down to the floor of the tub, hand a mess with how much he came. He sits for a few important minutes, panting hard to get his breath back, and waiting for the light-headed feeling to go away.

Finally, he’s steady enough to get to his feet and turn off the water. The realization, though, is still there in a corner of his mind, and now it’s more than just a handful of dreams or suspicions. Drying off, he sits on the corner of his bed and tries to figure out what he’s going to do now.

**

_Hands are all over him; whether it’s the serum or his nature, his skin is incredibly sensitized to touch outside of adrenaline-fueled fighting. It’s a drawback to the whole thing that he could gasp just with the right kind of soft touch to some of those spots on his body (places only Bucky knows about…) that were pretty bad even before the serum._

_But here, he gasps at the fingers, calloused and agile, swirling over the dents his hipbones make, and it’s obvious he’s…not wearing a stitch of clothing. He should be embarrassed. No one’s seen him bare in so long._

_But a head of dark hair nuzzles under his chin and he can’t help but sink his fingers in that soft hair, tilting the face up so he can see who’s here with him (even though he already knows in this hazy state, there’s only one person other than Buck).  Those brown eyes, warm like when he brought out those plates for Steve to see, are a little hazy, blinking at him and a smile, a real smile, not a mask, not a PR shadow, but a genuine, happy smile. Steve let himself trail fingers over the cut of Tony’s beard and mustache, outlining his lips. The lips that purse to kiss his fingertip._

_Steve frames that face with gentle hands and pulls, angles his face down so he can finally, finally give in to what he’s been imagining…_

He wakes up abruptly, hands still reaching for that face, trying to hold on so he could get a good taste of that mouth, and Steve sits up abruptly, blinking quickly around the darkness of his room. He squints at the bedside clock before laying his face in his hands and just breathing over the thrum of his pulse. 

“This is getting out of hand,” he says to the empty room, shifting uncomfortably with the ache in his shorts. If it wasn’t Tony, then it was Bucky or…that one time when it was _both_ of them and, God, no force on Earth could have made him do anything other than get a hot shower and give himself much needed release.

Well, this isn’t just going to go away on its own. Throwing his covers off (since sleep was certainly out of the question), he makes his way to the shower, not bothering with the lights since he can see all right without them, and just tries to _breathe_.

**

_Oh yeah. He’s screwed. Jim is laughing against his collar bone, uninhibited and **free** , laughing with genuine mirth that reaches his eyes and makes the little lines around them crinkle. _

_“Stop it, you asshole,” dream Jim snorts out, his bare upper body sliding against him, making him think of more than the lazy cuddling. “I’m dying here.”_

_He can’t because **this** is just so unbearably sexy. This man with wild hair and an easy smile and sinewy goodness when he stretches and just all of it; he needs this, wants it, all of it. _

_His fingers thread through the mussed hair, watching it slide dark and silky against the scars on his knuckles, an easy smile pulling at his own face. It’s a crazy thing that he knows he’s content._

_“Why would I stop when you’re so into it? Like I can’t tell,” and he dips down for an easy kiss, just pressing their lips together because it’s so warm and **good**. But the hand on his neck keeps him there, the tongue and lips against his open his mouth for more; he can’t deny he wants it and the heat begins under his skin… Mouth moves to his neck, sucking on him to make a mark, a new one that he can touch later when he’s working in the shop or at his desk at SI and remember this is where he should be._

_“My turn,” the fingers on his chin turn him to look at the familiar, loved face, those dancing blue eyes full of mirth, and Steve leans in to kiss him too, taking the taste of Jim out of his mouth and replacing it with his own. Tony doesn’t know what he’s done in his life to deserve this goodness, this gift of them both, but he reaches for Steve’s face, to run his knuckles down the cheek in reverence._

Tony gasps, throwing himself out of bed shakily, his eyes huge while his brain throws off the haze of sleep and focuses on the _holy shit, two naked super soldiers **in his bed**_. He flings himself back down with a groan, hands covering his face, and a massive hard-on that just makes it all the more clear how much of a problem this was becoming. Irritatingly so.

He’s no novice to attraction; he’s very well versed in art of sex and pleasure regardless of gender and has had his fun with chosen partners…before Afghanistan, before the scars and arc reactor in his chest. Only Pepper had seen the full extent, and even she was seriously creeped out about it.

 _What the fuck am I thinking?_ Tony almost smacks himself in the side of the head to reboot his broken brain. There was _not way in hell_ he was going to try seducing one, _nonetheless two_ , extremely hot super soldiers. Not going to happen. Nope. Just, not in the cards. He was absolutely going to stay away from that temptation and just be their best bud for as long as he could stand it. Yup, that’s the story and he’s sticking the hell to it.

But, the throbbing hard-on reminds him that maybe just a little imagination couldn’t really hurt, could it? Biting his lip, Tony takes himself in hand and closes his eyes, remembering Steve’s mouth on his while Jim sucks a mark on him…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no. Not sorry. Have I mentioned that I regret nothing? Just throwing it out there.


	25. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting so long to post this...

Saturday morning cartoons are rocked by the sudden alarms blaring and a minor tremor under foot. Clint, mid-bite, jerks as the lights and sirens start going off—and it’s not the standard Avenger’s alarm either. Milk sloshes all over him as he leaps to his feet, dumps his bowl in the sink.

“Attention,” F.R.I.D.A.Y’s pre-recorded tone was cool and calm, “attention. Proceed to the exit points calmly and in an orderly fashion. Attention, attention…”

He’s already in the stairwell, “F.R.I.D.A.Y, report.” He leans over the railing to see if anyone is moving above or below him. Each floor has a specific alarm setting, so he’s not seeing masses of employees in the lowest levels running in panic for the front doors. So, something on one of the Avenger’s floor. A list of possibilities flash through his mind: kidnappers, terrorists, super villains, giant something or others…

“Agent Barton, there has been a mishap in the boss’s workshop.”

“Let everyone else know,” he orders, taking the stairs up, two at a time, vaulting up banisters when he can. “Status on Stark?”

“Unknown.” F.R.I.D.A.Y’s voice sounds a touch—wobbly. Can an AI be wobbly?

_Double shit_.

The door a few floors below him open with a bang and without looking, he can be sure it’s Steve coming up the stairs from the gym, probably Nat or Jim on his heels (neither of them will beat him taking the stairs, though. Steve has the longest stride of anyone). They collect a sleepy but functioning Bruce and a slightly panicked Wanda (who refuses to let the sirens and lights triggering her flashback hold her in its’ thrall).  The group spills out of the stairwell into the workshop’s entryway. The doors had been obviously blown open, shards of glass showering the floor in all directions, the doors hanging off the hinges against the metal structures. Black smoke billows out the entrance, obscuring everything.

Tony is nowhere in sight.

“Tony!” Steve gasps, already moving through the others.

“Captain!” F.R.I.D.A.Y reprimands, “do **not** enter! Sergeant Barnes is already inside.”

The vacuum system kicks on, sucking up the smoke, to show the sprinklers already showering any potential fires as well as a drenched Jim pulling an equally wet yet protesting Tony Stark closer to the door with an arm around his waist. Neither appeared to be worse for wear.

“Nothing to panic about,” Tony immediately placates, “minor, and I mean totally minor, setback. F.R.I.D.A.Y, cut the alarms.” He has both hands out in an ‘I’m an engineer, I know what I’m talking about’ gesture, hair dripping wet.

“Minor…?” Wanda’s eyes are wide, “what in the world would you consider major?”

Tony’s brow rose, one hand moving up to start ticking off his immediate top 10 (which include AI’s intent on world destruction, detonations of nuclear devices, stalker ex-girlfriends, slimey ooze monsters, villains with access to money _and_ internal crazy), but Bruce stops him before he can even get started.

“What did you do?”

Stark shrugs a little, “just trying to find a different way to synthesize Vibranium…for another reactor,” he taps his chest, hating that he had to admit he hadn’t made another since the Avengers moved back to the Tower… so much had happened he simply hadn’t had the spare time.

“The process takes, well, incredibly complicated terms so let’s just say _a lot_. I was trying to refine the process.” Tony waves away the concerned looks.

“Okay…injuries?” Steve barks, absently leaning down to pat Butterfingers, who was making _loud_ beeping sounds.

“Nope!” Tony obliges by turning a 360 to show that he’s dirty, wet from the sprinklers, but unharmed. He looks at U and Butterfingers rolling by the assembled team frantically, and his brow furrows. He keeps talking while still looking concerned, “I’m 100% functional and…F.R.I.D.A.Y?”

“Boss.”

“Where’s DUM-E?”

“Scanning.”

Tony jerks, turning back to the workshop, no longer hazy with smoke. He moves closer to the mess, glass and metal crunching underfoot.

“DUM-E?”

“Boss…” U and Butterfingers are going nuts, and Tony’s heart skips a beat as he looks at them. Before Jim can reach out and snag him by the arm, Tony sprints away.

The inside is destroyed, but Tony is jumping, climbing over downed equipment to try getting across the room where he’d last seen DUM-E whirling around, picking up discarded towels before the big boom.

“Shit!” Clint says aloud this time and follows immediately behind. He’s faster than Stark at the whole, climb, jump, and avoid pointy metal thing; he climbs over a huge, destroyed _something_ or other in time to see Tony lifting a heavy worktable up and just throwing it off.

Jim and Steve don’t even pause beside Barton but keep moving to where Stark is slowly sinking to his knees.

The little bot is so much worse off, claw weakly opening and closing; he tries to move it to the ground to brace himself to get back up on his wheels, but the hydraulics are just too damaged and his claw too loose to be any good. Some of his wires and servos are singed, the darkness of oil spreading out under him like blood…

DUM-E emits a series of beeps that are low and weak, pained.

Jim takes one look, his face stricken, and darts off the other direction, hair whirling behind him as he launches himself up, over, and around the debris in his way, jumping up to grab a hanging support beam to vault over what was probably a storage case for one of the Iron Man suits. Steve, however, sucks in a breath and pulls more bits of plastic and metal off the little bot’s housing unit before he knees on the other side, across from the stricken Tony Stark. Trying to be as gentle as possible, Steve reaches out for the claw with both hands, folding his fingers around them. The return squeeze is so weak.

“Hey big guy,” he says in a low voice, glancing up at the broken expression on Tony’s face. The mechanic’s hands are gently petting his long-time best friend (and first major breakthrough), absently tracing over his own handwriting with DUM-E’s name in black sharpie (originally written in a ten-year old’s scrawl).

“I’m sorry,” Tony’s voice is somewhat hoarse, “I’m so sorry you got caught up in it, buddy.”

F.R.I.D.A.Y’s voice covers up the metallic pings of things just randomly being thrown in the background (that no one else pays attention to), “Workshop is stable, and contaminants are secured.”

“Scan DUM-E,”

“Sorry, boss. Scanners 14-25 are blown when part of the ceiling came down.”

Stark curses while Steve gently squeezes the weak claw a little tighter. Wanda, finally through the debris as well, gasps at the sight and draws their eyes. She moves some huge magnet to kneel by the bot’s base, wheels uselessly spinning; her hands are tender, easy when she touches, her eyes watery.

Jim is back, weaving through the rest of them trying to get through the debris with the specific tool box cradled in both hands, finally found. He’s already unlocking the lid (glad for small miracles, if everything had gone flying, there’s no way he’d be able to find all the specific tools Tony would need) as he strides to Tony’s right side by the little bot’s damaged arm. He kneels there so he can be out of the way of all the main work that would need to be completed. He stares Stark down until Tony looks over at him, in which he pops the lid open, offering the tools.

A blink of time and the _mechanic_ fills Tony Stark’s eyes. He has a wrench and socket out of the box immediately going to work, his jaw locked so hard the muscle jumps.

Clint and Bruce finally scoot the fallen machine back and away from the scene. Clint comes to plop his butt down beside Wanda and, after a moment’s hesitation, puts a hand to the bot’s cracked housing unit.  Nat and Sam come to sit down too, staying out of the way of Tony’s furious pace, his expression dark with concentration and concern. Bruce disappears long enough to get a fresh pot of coffee made and stored in a carafe mixed just how Tony likes it. He picks up a pack of water bottles out of the fridge and steps over things to sit beside Steve, wordlessly handing out the water bottles before he pours the coffee in a patented mug with ‘Caution: Genius at Play’ scripted on the side.

Steve takes the mug in one hand while the other still holds DUM-E’s claw and holds it up, slightly to the left to be in Stark’s peripheral vision. In his engineering haze, Tony’s free hand reaches for the mug while opening the main cage of circuitry and hissing at the mass of singed components. Sparks fly, Tony drops the screwdriver to push Jim’s chest back to be out of the spark range. He doesn’t even look up but instead eyes the mess while emptying the mug in a few gulps, placing it back in Steve’s outstretched palm.

Jim leans back and keeps the tool box sitting on across his folded legs, pulling out the correct color-coded lengths of wiring in one hand, cutters in the other until the next length is ready to replace. Steve, for whatever reason, starts talking nonsense to the little bot, asking questions about the bot’s affinity for baseball (because, seriously, the Dodgers really _aren’t_ in Brooklyn anymore?! It’s a travesty. He gets a more enthusiastic beep for that) and just _talking_ like he’s trying to keep DUM-E awake.

Bruce mutters something about the Yankees and both soldiers give him a death glare.

“Don’t say the “Y” word, Bruce, we’re in mixed company,” Buck snarls as he holds out the wire cutters in an open palm for Tony to get when he needs them. The gathering laughs.

Wanda picks up for Steve when he falters and the casing sparks a few times again while Tony keeps working with a small soldering gun; she apologizes she didn’t like his last smoothie concoction but would very much like to try a strawberry one once he’s better and able to make one. She tells him how rare a commodity strawberries were for her and her brother when they were small and thus made them more delectable. She even promised she wouldn’t listen to F.R.I.D.A.Y if she said the smoothie was inedible. She appreciated his thoughtfulness.

The others began putting their two cents in after her, Sam saying they could go down to the gym and shoot a few rounds with the Playschool hoop he got the bots a few weeks ago. He’s sure DUM-E will get that hook shot soon. The bot gives him a slightly stronger negative beep.

With each burned wire replaced, servo fixed, and hydraulic part substituted, the little bot’s beeping becomes steadier, the movements stronger and more coordinated, fluid. The claw grasping at Steve’s hand firms, range of motion extends.

Another cup of coffee is held tantalizingly in Stark’s peripheral, and he actually looks up, startled that everyone is still there. But, he takes the mug and downs it before moving lower to DUM-E’s ports and container, his heart pattering faster now. The ports are so _old_ , replacement parts long gone, and with the system he’d initially built, there would be no telling if he could replace the whole thing without losing the bot DUM-E has become…He sighs but he’s determined, DUM-E _has_ to be fine. He, Butterfinger, and U are all the family Tony has left.

As he absently moves down to be able to reach the housing unit, the whole team discreetly moves with him like an odd musical chairs. Barnes still beside him with the toolbox close, eyes on the strangely intricate way Tony’s hands move while he works. Steve doesn’t let go of the claw when he and Banner shift around. Nat and Clint move without anyone even seeing them, and Sam does a double-take before he, too, moves. Wanda, however, isn’t in the way and keeps patting the little bot with both hands.

None of them left when one hour became two (even when Steampunk’d is slated to air), and the last necessary repairs are finally finished. Tony set the last tool back in the box Jim still holds with a sense of finality. His eyes for his first major creation, he sits back with his hands on his knees.

“Okay, buddy. How we doing there?”

The chirping is enthusiastic, sounding absolutely normal and grins break out among the Avengers.

“Good. Run a self-check on your registry.”

A series of smaller fans kick on, a tiny whirling sound. After a few long moments, positive beeping again.

“Team Engineer, for the win.” Tony finally breaks into a smile, and his eyes are so utterly _relieved_. 

“All right, let’s get you vertical.” He stands up, leans down to brace DUM-E to rise, and finds seven other pairs of hands reaching out along the bot’s body, reading to lift him back to his wheels. DUM-E is a tall robot and all of them have room to pull or push. _All_ of them, Tony just glances around at the eyes directly on his bot.  Something in his chest lurches, warms, something that has nothing to do with the arc reactor or shrapnel.

Experimentally, DUM-E wheels back and forth a few times, as if testing his weight, and lifted up his arm to wrap around his creator’s back in a mock-hug. A few gentle beeps and Tony’s laughs gently,

“Me too, buddy. Don’t think this gives you an excuse to put motor oil in my smoothies. That is still totally gross and not cool.”

Everyone laughs loudly, the sound is joyous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.


	26. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Jim to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit Content. If you're not into it, stop reading at “You daft bastard. Jesus Christ, Steve.” And everything will be fine.  
> *Takes a deep, fearful breath*  
> *Puts down*

It had gotten too far out of hand, grating on him. This terrible secret, this thing that he can’t have, can move toward just wringing him out.  It’s like the old days when he was just a little shit with nothing to offer, running copy while he kept waiting for the day to end so he could be with…so he could have that, _that_. And damn if the fella isn’t making it so much **harder** just by being himself—the same goofy, snarky ball of complicated that he was as a little guy.  The same _fuck you, Jack_ attitude that he could be completely untouchable, the nothing could shake him, that he didn’t need to be coddled by anyone. And it made the instinct, the old feelings rise up outta his very bones to just reach out and pull that big gallut into him and hold on and say those old things: _don’t hide from me, don’t push me away, I know you better than this, who do you think you're fooling? Just fucking let me **in…**_  

Worse are the casual touches, the hand on his shoulder and mid-back, when he can fully _remember_ those palms (over his thighs, up his sides, his neck, holding the back of his knees) sweeping over skin. Just watching him move, watching the light in his eye when he laughed in genuine mirth, the completely different light when he’s the strategist, the calculating one when he’s puzzling out whatever in the hell Stark is talking about. It’s all just another piece of gravity, the unexplainable pull that always brought him back to the guy time and time again.

So after another bout of explicit dreams, he’s awake, moving along the Tower like a ghost, his steps silent in the empty communal floor (because he had to get away from the guy’s bedroom or…yeah). Everyone was in bed or out, one of the few times the place was silent.  The usual distraction is always down there, so he can find Tony for the hundredth, thousandth time in the last few months and hang out with the guy that’s safe. The guy that can pull him out of his head and his heart and his body in regards to the past; with Tony, it’s a whole ‘nother ball of complicated and a different if not similar gravity. 

He finds himself moving toward the hidden staircase, muscle memory or habit? He’s not foolish enough to believe it.

“We need to talk.”

_Caught in the act_.

He pauses mid-step, programming whirling in the back of his head, calculating probabilities. He’s better now, had been for a while. Once he gets over this whole _thing_ , then he’ll be at peak performance. He’s just got to figure this all out first and not with that punk watching him with those knowing eyes.

He sighs, “Stevie, I-“             

“I know already.” Half cast in shadow, the Captain is standing against the wall, arms folded over his big chest, not looking at his best friend. “You think I haven’t noticed?”

Jim Barnes turns slowly, still seeing that damn skinny kid from his block where the big gallut was standing. Well, in some odd moments, he saw the same guy in a crazy German safe house punching the shit out of some Nazi asshole.

“Dunno what yer talkin-“ They both ignore how hard he’s backpeddling.

“Stark is that kind of guy,” Steve interrupts him carefully. “Not surprised he bring out the instinct in you, you know?  He’s someone else you can look out for even when he’s looking out for you.”

Jim runs a hand through his hair and shuts his mouth. It’s true. He’s always been a protector, from way back in the day. It’s a type of strength borne in his bones. In the last few months of living with the Avengers, it’s become a more prevalent trait, helping ground him, remind him who he used to be and reconcile it with the fella he _wants_ to be, chooses to be in the now. It helps that Cap, the link to his past, and Stark, the link to this future, have given him the chance to start making it right again.

“He-“ Jim swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, “he’s never been scared…of me. He’s never tried to push. He just- just lets it be. That’s what I needed, I guess.”

“Tony gets you. He…well, he gets a lot of people. It’s his nature.”

“Yeah. I noticed.” Jim’s grey eyes glint dangerously, “I also noticed _you_ noticing him, Stevie.”

Instantly, pink rushes to the Captain’s face even in the shadows, but to his credit, he doesn’t look away or deny it.

“I’ve always had a thing for wise ass brunettes.” He shrugs, unbothered, “it’s my ‘type’ I guess.”

Steve says is all generic-like, and he doesn’t _know_ Bucky remembers…that between them, there are volumes of experiences and moments and feelings and closeness volumes and _Steve doesn’t know Buck can access those memories_. Their relationship before the war, hiding their intimacy from a society that would condemn them. Pretending to be roommates when they shared a bed, shared touch, shared kisses behind closed doors.  “Double-dated” to keep a cover so no one would figure out the truth. Their plans for a future interrupted by the draft and Steve holding him the night before he was to set out, the little guy scared out of his mind because too many soldiers _never came home_. Steve there when he was sent off, a wealth of things in those blue eyes that he couldn’t say in front of all those other people, but Bucky _knew_. The moments after Project Rebirth, meeting again on the battlefield, leaving their sleeping regimen to share those touches again with only the dark to conceal them. Jim needed to map out this new body with his hands and mouth. Steve needed to feel the pulse under his hand race, to know the heart was beating and the body alive. He wanted to test his limitations, to see what this new form could do…

All that past lie between them with implication on what _now_ could become. And Jim, Jim just stares.

“I’m sorry, if I’ve been pushing too hard. I didn’t want that for you,” Steve finally admits, eyes darting away to look elsewhere. “You tell me to back-off and I will, I’ll-“

Jim is crossing the floor now, not trying to be quiet, and puts himself in front of the blonde, tilting his head to look up those important few inches to make sure Steve sees only him.

“I needed to get my head right before I could come back to you,” he explains starkly, “the memories were just fragments of us, only pieces that I couldn’t put together to make a whole picture, and with the programming still that strong in me, I couldn’t risk you. Not after I almost put you down. I couldn’t get close, let you get comfortable with me when I could rip your throat out in your sleep, Steve. I couldn’t _risk_ you until I beat the programming enough to know you’d be safe.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, the whites so bright in the dark. Like the guy didn’t expect the conversation to go anywhere near here.

“An, I’ve got it now, well, mostly, and I’m ready to get some of what I was back.” Jim sighs and the motion makes their chests brush together. “Stevie, you shoulda already figured that out.”

Those baby blues dilate slightly and Jim finally understands what almost happened here. This stupid, self-sacrificing asshole was just going to up and let him go be happy with someone else, be chivalrous and all that shit if Tony made Jim happy. If Jim only _wanted Tony_  (which wasn't a lie but wasn't the whole truth either...).

The knowledge of what he almost lost in those precious few moments pisses him off. “You daft bastard. Jesus _Christ_ , Steve.”

Steve just blinks in surprise, but Jim’s hands come up of their own accord, one wrapping around the back of Steve’s neck and the other around his waist to rest at the small of his back. Both hands pulled at the same time. He presses them together, his own body different now than the last time they did this; that thought doesn’t stop him from doing, from _needing_. But, dammit if he still doesn’t have to stretch up on his toes. Some things even the Russian version of the serum can’t fix.

Steve’s mouth is still sweet and soft, perfect and pliant. They still fit together in harmony, even if he’s bulkier now than he used to be, more muscle and strength, the metal arm a new addition that’s heavier on his left side (not as heavy as the old one). Sure, he may have changed physically, but the tightening in his chest at the touch, the butterflies starting to flutter in his lower abdomen, the stark _hunger_ starts to rear its’ head. All of those things are so familiar and gaining momentum, and he could almost cry in relief. If he could still do this, if could still _feel_ like this, then he could be human again. Stevie, loving Steve again, could be the next step in making him a person. Not the one he used to be but a person nonetheless.

He makes some kind of noise again Steve’s perfect mouth, those big paws had swept up to press gently along his rib cage, slowly running up and down to try and be easy. He doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want his friend, his old lover, one of the most important people in his life, to run away. And thank God, Buck is the one that runs the tip of his tongue over Steve’s bottom lip for entrance.

With a small noise, Steve opens and his enhanced senses _drown_ in the taste. Softly, sweetly, that deft little tongue sweeps in to tangle with his, to run over the inside of his mouth like he’s trying to re-learn the textures all over again. The hands on him tighten, the metal hand on the back of his neck clenches to just this side of pain, the fingers flexing to wrap in the longer strands of hair at the back of his head. The flesh hand on the small of his back pulls hard, putting them even closer together.

It’s so good, it’s all _so_ _damn_ _good_. Steve lets Bucky keep control, but his hands creep up, palms skimming the front of the muscular body, over the pectorals, smoothing over the collar bone, fanning fingers over the sides of his neck to feel the pulse beating a steady and quickening staccato. The noise from Bucky’s throat echoes in his own and he swallows that small noise of capitulation.

The hand in his hair tightens and pulls, moving his head to meet another angle as the heat turns up a notch. Bucky becomes more domineering, demands _more_ , one hand moving to grip Steve’s wrist and move the hand to be directly on his ass. Steve obliges him, uses the grip to pull their hips together and line them up so their cocks are pressed against the other with just thin layers of clothing separating them.

In between hot kisses with tongues and remembering the texture and taste, Jim starts talking, “Making me a desperate fella here, Stevie.” His hips move, undulating against the blonde so that they both groan in the other’s mouth.

Steve feels like he’s dying, like a piece of him that’s been missing is miraculously back. “You’re in charge. Tell me what you want, _mon lupe_ , tell me what you _need_ me to do.”

The Captain whispers and that _name_ makes him shudder delicately under Steve’s hands (because now he remembers that time in France when he howled so loud out in the woods, they'd both paniced at the thought of someone hearing...). Bucky pulls back, out of the embrace, grey eyes on fire as he grips Steve’s wrist and almost drags him to the elevator, smashing the button. He turns back while they wait, pressing their bodies together again, his mouth moving along the tendon running up Steve’s neck.

“You, every inch of you, under my hands, under my mouth,” is whispered against his pulse. Steve makes a rough noise, hands gripping Bucky’s biceps.

“Didn’t…” He wants his best friend, his lover, his soul, to understand even while teeth worry at his pulse. “I didn’t know if you’d remembered or if you’d still want—“ _this. Me. Us._

“Yer an idiot,” Bucky deadpans against his collar bone before sucking and marking with his teeth.

“I know you mean, ‘Steve, you’re such a thoughtful fella.  Thanks for thinking of me.”’ He braces a hand against the wall to keep himself up, sucking in a breath at that mouth on him.

And Bucky just laughs a little, “Steve, _babe_ , I’ve wanted to touch you, taste you, _take_ you, let you take _me_ for too long.” The breath on his skin makes his shiver, “I couldn’t chance it. I wouldn’t play with your _life_.”

Another sinful noise from the Cap and his hands are framing Bucky’s face, their eyes meeting. “It’s okay,” his voice is hoarse, full of emotion, “we’re going to do all o’ that. Every last thing,” he promises before his hungry mouth latches on to Bucky’s again and he’s pressing the smaller man against the wall, bracketing him in with both arms.

Finally, the damn elevator opens and Steve walks them in, lifting his head just enough to order them to his floor. Then they’re back at it; Steve’s arm slides under his ass to lift the soldier up a few inches to hold him against the wall again so his mouth can move up and down Bucky’s throat without having to bend down.  Bucky’s unique flavor and something that is wholly from this time, this era; the combination is perfectly heady, just what he needs, what he's been denying himself, been convincing himself he'd never get again.

Legs wrap around his waist, ankles lock at the small of his back and their erections are sliding back and forth, the friction too much and not enough at the same time.

“Oh _God_ ,” one of them says in the other’s mouth. And tongues duel, hands move over skin, cloth rips until the damn doors open into Steve’s floor. He doesn’t bother to let Jim down, just braces the arm under his ass and strides to the bedroom, banging into walls along the way since he’s wound so tight, he might just throw them on the floor to do it right here.

But, dammit, _lube’s in the bedroom_. Right.

The door to said room almost explodes off the hinges as the two come through and Steve finally sets Jim on his feet by the foot of the bed. He immediately drops to his knees, grips the waistband of the jeans and rips the damn things in half without even straining hard. Jim’s hips jerk with the movement, but his mouth waters and his dick throbs with how utterly _hot_ that makes him. In no time, Steve dives in, mouth on his abdomen, hands behind Jim’s thighs to pull him in so the blonde can mouth, lick, suck his way up and make Jim absolutely insane.

Somehow, both hands end up cupping the back of Steve’s head, his own thrown back while he’s panting for breath, shuddering under the onslaught, finally being touched again. It’s all so intoxicating, so incredible that he doesn’t even think to censor the moans and gasps and just _noises_ coming from his throat. They aren’t in a tent in the middle of France or Italy, they don’t have to keep it under the rug or fear that someone will find out and have them sent away…

When Steve’s mouth closes around his nipple, Jim actually cries out. It’s just, it’s just been too long since he was touched, all of it making his body so utterly sensitive to every skim of fingers, ever swipe of the tongue, every indent of perfect teeth.

His legs aren’t going to be able to hold him much longer. That doesn’t stop Steve from suckling, from letting his fingers wander down to find the certain spot right behind his knees…

The noise is filthy, wonderful, and a turn-on. Steve catches him just as his wobbly legs give out, lets him slide down to hold Jim's shaky form right to him. “God, you smell so good, _feel_ so good.”

“S-Sweet-talker,” Jim manages with Steve’s mouth at his throat, those hands flexing on his ass, holding him off the ground. Steve goes lower to his collar bone and Jim arches so hard, his back touches the top of the bed, almost laying out, offering himself up. Steve is on his feet, spilling Jim back on the bed anyhow and stares down at him for a few long moments, mostly naked, flushed with arousal, his cock tenting the briefs, and nipples erect.

“Come to me,” he finally manages, voice deep and hungry. “Steve, take off your clothes and _come to me_.”

Blue eyes dilate with the order, Steve’s pulse kicks up a notch and his expression changes to that dirty smile, so utterly delectable with his hair mussed up from Jim’s hands running through it, mouth red from kissing and sucking. One powerful hand sweeps just under the hem of his shirt, baring a flash of hard, muscled flesh. “These clothes?” His voice is utterly wrecked, deep and erotic, “ya want me outta these clothes, Buck?” He draws out the name, sliding the hand up his own body, the shirt following, inching to display more. The other hand plays over the waist of his jeans.

Jim’s eyes widen, “yes,” he hisses, hand palming himself. “Get it _off_ , Steve. Take it off for me.”

Steve throws back his head as his hand finally makes it to his pecs, his nipple, sliding over the skin. He gasps at his own touch and Jim’s mouth waters at the picture he makes, can’t even think about looking away. _Oh god, he’s going to make me finish without even touching me_ …

Finally, the shirt slides up and off, leaving all that perfection open and begging. 

Those hands return to the waistband of his jeans, playing inside to come around to the front, popping just the button. His fingers play along the ridge of his hips, sliding in to feel himself and a rolling growl spills out of Jim’s throat.  He’s sitting up, hands gripping the waistband, muscles rippling as he tears them apart to dive in with his mouth to taste and lick and (oh God) _suck_ at the hips. Scraps of denim fall apart and he grips handfuls of ass to pull Steve into his mouth so he can have _more_. His hands only move enough to shove those fucking boxers out of his way and he can lave that perfect part of Steve with his tongue, licking from root to tip. His memories don’t do it justice, the length, the thickness in his hand and mouth, the taste, the feel, _oh God_ …

Steve almost screams when Jim’s takes him in, hands coming to grip his best friend’s shoulders when his knees start knocking. Heat rockets through him, it had been so long. So long.

Jim hums, hollows out his cheeks, licks and sucks like a man possessed. Like he _needs_ this more than anything in the world. He’s making Steve the desperate one now.

“W—Wait,” he gasps out, “I need more.”

Jim pauses enough for Steve to get the ability to _think_ again and steps back to kick off the last of his clothes. He bends down, arm around Jim’s back and mouths meeting as he pulls Jim further up the bed with him, sliding their bodies together, skin on skin, chests brushing, hips moving against one another in a sensuous dance. Jim throws his head back at all the sensations, shaking with the intensity and not holding back his noises. He shoves his knee between Steve’s legs, grinding himself against his thigh at the same time.  Steve reaches for the back of his neck, pulling him back to fit their mouths together for long dances of tongues, his other hand gripping Jim’s hip, sliding around to his back to move them together.

Jim’s free hand comes to struggle getting his briefs the fuck _off_ without having to move his legs from being wrapped around one of Steve’s and rutting against him.

Finally pulling back, his eyes so dilated they look black, Steve pushes himself up to tear the offending cloth away without giving a shit, taking a long moment to look down at the fully bare James Barnes below him, an offering of skin and muscles and absolute beauty… His face is flushed and aroused, eyes half-mast, chest rising rapidly with panting, and all that hair spread around him.

“You’re still so beautiful,” he whispers hoarsely. “Just like I’ve always seen you.”

Jim’s eyes widen for a second then soften. “Always you, babe,” he replies in a thick tone.

Steve just grins and slides himself beside Jim feet first, one hand on his hip nudging him to his side. The position puts him right at Jim’s curved erection, the whole length of him straining for touch, for taste… He doesn’t even take a second, wrapping a long arm around the hips to palm Jim’s ass and pull him closer. He can’t take the time to appreciate every inch, he’s too desperate for all of it in his mouth, down his throat, the curve fitting inside _perfectly_ …

The hips under his arm buck hard, and now the other man is screaming, almost sobbing, the flesh in Steve’s mouth pulses, hardens, and he takes it all in to the root, burying his nose right in Jim’s balls, working his throat around the head.

“Fuck, oh my GOD, oh fuck…Steve, ah, ah! I’m—I can’t—uh.” All those wrecked noises, pleas, cries drive him for more, to make his fella call out again, to be as _loud_ as he wants and then some.

The sounds are just muffled and warmth, _wet_ is back on him, making Steve falter and groan around the perfect cock in his mouth. The warm hand wraps around the back of his thigh and pulls him over and closer; warm breath makes him twitch and Jim is working him like before, like it’s his _calling_ in life. He tightens his lips around Steve, tongue flat to lathe the tip and slit while he moves. Almost forgetting his darn _name_ , the ass cheek in his hand gets a squeeze while he gets with the program, shuddering while working Bucky with just as much need.

Hands wander over skin, base of the spine, legs, thighs, hips while the two writhe against each other, give each other this intimate pleasure. Both are wound so tight, muscles straining, hearts pounding, winding tighter and tighter.

Jim gives first, pulling back to gasp, “have to stop, I’m too close,” forehead on Steve’s thigh. He’s trembling all over from trying to hold back. Steve’s no better, feeling like he’s dying but rolls over and around fast, a graceful stretch of muscle until he’s in between Jim’s legs leaning over on his forearms to line their mouths up, to taste himself on the other man’s tongue. He takes his time to make it filthy, nipping, sucking.

“Me too,” he admits easily, breaking the kiss. “We’re gonna have to finish this round.” Steve pushes himself up, and the picture he makes, all intense sex-eyes, skin pink and marked, cock ramrod hard and flushed with blood…pre-cum leaks over Jim's belly at the mere _sight_.

“Trust me,” Steve whispers in a dark tone, leaning down to slide his hands and forearms under Bucky’s thighs, under his ass, until his palms press along his mid-back, elbows opening his legs.

“Of course I trust you,” he finds himself whispering back, chest pounding with something that had nothing to do with this act, but with the truth that he did, completely and truly. In that way, he and his past self were of one mind: both would put his life in the hands of Steve Rogers.

Gently, Steve lifts, his hands gripping lightly at Jim’s side, pulling his lower body completely off the bed until Jim’s thighs are over those massive shoulders and his pelvis at the perfect height for Steve to... _Oh God, I see where this is headed._ The rest of him was dangling backwards in an arch, hair still trailing on the bed, basically dangling from Steve’s powerful hands and arms.

“ _Jesus,_ Steve!” He has no purchase, nothing to hold onto, thighs flexing, but he is completely at the blonde’s mercy.

Of which, he has none. Steve attacks immediately, holding Jim up enough to lick at his hanging balls, roll one then the other in his mouth to suck at lightly, use his tongue to roll them around in his mouth.

Hanging backward with his blood debating on which head to go for, Jim keens, an embarrassing noise of complete capitulation, hands clenching on his own hips since he can’t reach Steve to hold on for the ride. Like this, he can’t even reach out to fist his hands in that fluffy blonde hair at the base of his neck… He can’t see Steve’s head rise, blue eyes roving over the plane of his body arched like this, straining, waiting, _needing_. Those eyes falling half-mast with such depth of feeling for the precious person.

When Steve takes him in again, Jim almost bucks enough to unseat himself from the supporting hands, but Steve adjusts his grip, fingers biting into Jim’s sides to make sure he holds on. The bruises that would be there later would be beauts, a mark he would want to stay, to remind him of this exact moment when Steve finally sucks and his body explodes with sensations long forgotten.

“Fuck, FUCK! I’m—I’m, Steve, God, Steve!”

His back arches hard and he cries out hoarsely when he finally lets go, eyes fluttering, vision whiting out, buried deep as Steve’s throat works him more with every swallow, taking everything he had to give. His body is boneless, humming with aftershocks, knees and thighs shaking against the steady shoulders and chest. When he can see again, do something other than float, Steve is gently lowering him back to the bed, looking down on him.

Buck's a vision, body still twitching with the remnants of pleasure, blissed out expression, chest still heaving, and his body just perfectly pliant _and Steve's the one who did that to him_.

“T-Th,” his tongue steals out to lick his lips before Jim could continue, “that was a helluva good _talk_. I mean, best talk of m’ life. No lie.”

Steve just laughs, face in the palm of his hand, chest quaking with mirth. He looks down in between his fingers at the soft grin on Jim’s face, the sparkle in his eye that was so comfortable with everything finally, like he wasn’t going to jump out of his own skin to escape his demons.

With a guffaw, Steve lays down beside him making moon eyes at his best guy. “Me and my big mouth,” his eyes twinkle at Jim.

“Not always gettin’ ya inta trouble,” Jim comes back with an arched brow, “now get over here. Give me what I need.”

Even though they’d just been awful naked together, pretty much tearing each other’s clothes off, Steve gets this dusty shade of pink on his cheeks and it’s so _the little fella,_ Jim smiles. “I’m okay. You can just—“

“Hell no.” Jim holds up his metal arm, making a fist. He goes all calm, “yer gonna get over here or I’m gonna hold you still while I take what I need, and I will not be _nice_ about it. I’ll make you wait. I’ll torture you on the edge. You understand that, Stevie?” And, oh yes. That memory had come back a _while_ ago, one that made him hard and aching on more than one occasion. As he remembered, Steve’s eyes dilate and his pulse picks up immediately.

“Well,” Jim drawls lazily, “I guess that’s how it’s gotta be, is it?”

“Buck,” Steve’s tone is already wrecked, even before Jim’s hand fists in hair at the back of his head and _pulls_ , making him stretch his neck out. His tongue runs from the base of Steve’s throat to under his chin, hand pulling just this side of pain. Gooseflesh breaks out as the body under Jim loosens up. Oh, this was going to be so good, he was going to make it so good for Steve.

Less than a second calculating how he wanted it. He moves quickly, pulling Steve up without relinquishing his hold, other arm around his waist to pull the blonde to the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. Jim stands, holding so the blue gaze tilts up to meet his while he uses his knees to spread Steve’s. He moves that gaze as he slowly kneels.

Steve is panting all over again, eyes fluttering when the cold of metal gathers his wrists behind his back, the whirling sound clicking, as if the fist holding him locks into place…

Jim releases Steve’s hair reluctantly (since he sure as hell wasn’t tall enough to hold on while he’d be taking that glorious dick in his mouth until his name was all Stevie could say) and put their faces inches apart so his breath could fan the blonde’s face. Biting his lower lip, Steve’s arms jerk, pull a little, test the hold. His eyes widen minutely when he realizes he’s pretty well stuck and a wild light strikes Jim’s eye as he grins an evil little smirk.

“You should know better than to test me, Steve,” he says in a low voice. His free hand grips the side of Steve’s neck and he leans in to shove his tongue right in, to catch the moans in his own throat, to take right over and _claim_. His metal hand pulls slightly until the kiss is broken by Steve being forced backwards by his arms, chest and abdomen on display like a human buffet.

Mouth sliding over skin, Jim finally lets himself go, taking, marking, licking, biting. He wrings cries out of Steve’s mouth, memory giving him all those spots, all the secrets of the other man’s body. In between mouth on flesh, he starts up a running monologue.

“It’s been so long for you, babe, hasn’t it?” Breath of air against a dusky nipple, “you haven’t been able to let go. You’ve had to be the Captain, the leader, couldn’t let anyone see you bend, eh?” Where he can’t see, Steve’s eye open, widen, his heart gives a lurch. _That last time was before the train…_ His skin flushes harder, becoming even more sensitive.

“Not tonight, but we’ll work back into it, so you _can_ submit to me again.  I remember what it does to you. I _know_ when you need it, Steve. How beautiful you are when you finally _do_. You come so hard when you give in.” Jim answers without needing the question voiced and then his mouth closes on that tender bit and sucks.

Steve’s hips jerk, his erection still red and leaking. He moans, arms straining in Buck’s hold, pulling on his shoulders with pain that edges on pleasure.

“I’m stronger now. I can hold you down for it, make you beg me. You want that, I know you do. I know you want me to make sure you can’t fight back while I’m pounding inside you, hittin’ yer sweet spot until you can only moan my name.”

“Y-Yes,” Steve hisses, images of the hand on the back of his neck forced him down, rough rope around his wrists and knees keeping him in place, giving up command, giving up _control_ to the one person that would never hurt him. “I—I haven’t since…” Teeth on his thigh makes him cry out, almost sobbing at how hot he’s getting just thinking about the things Bucky could do to him now.

“Good. I’m the only one that should see you like that, Stevie, so hard you’re about to die, marked up, and on your knees begging me to open you up so I can slide right in…”

“God, your _mouth_ ,” Steve’s chest is heaving, “always a dirty talker.”

“Only for you, only when I think about how good you feel inside me, giving me everything I need, filling me up so sweetly,” then breath along his already throbbing cock, his hips jerk. “And you do, babe. Fill me up until I scream for you, pounding my ass like it’s your mission in life. I _remember that._ I _want that again_.” Tongue swirling around the head, the hand strains more and his shoulders burn when he tries to pull against it, has to test its limits.

The metal hand pulls back effortlessly, and the mouth comes down to engulf him, free hand on his leg squeezes while he undulates, pants, moans, tries to do something to get closer to the edge.  Every time he tries to sit up or thrust his hips, the mouth leaves him, the flesh hand circling around the base of him to hold off his orgasm, waiting for him to come down enough to continue. He’s almost ready to lose his mind.

“Finally at that point,” Jim whispers darkly, his smirk utterly evil. He releases the base of Steve’s cock and just starts working him, putting his wrist into it while he watches the play of tortured pleasure on the blonde’s face.

“God, God…Buck, Bucky!” is all Steve can say, trembling delicately and so sensitive. He isn’t pulling, isn’t fighting against the hold, his eyes so blue and dazed. He’s in the right headspace, it’s the expression Jim has seen in his dreams. The one that made his so fucking hard for too many nights.

“That’s right, it’s so good isn’t it, babe?” He just keeps up the monologue, tightens his hand a little, squeezing at the right places, watches the dark red flush over that heaving chest, the nipples tighten painfully. “You feel so good right now, don’t cha? All you wanna do it come in my hand, just let go and finish, eh?”

“Pl-Please…”

“Good, babe. That’s so good.” Then his mouth was back, hand moving in sync. He pulls off enough to call out, “now, Stevie. I want you to come, _now_.” He dives back down in time to make it easier, tongue moving, sucking, waiting. His timing is off (it’d been 70 years since he got laid, give him a break) but not by much. In a few seconds, Steve cries out above him, hips jerking as fire burns in his veins. He lets go in a rush so hard he sees spots in front of his eyes.

When he’s somewhat aware, Buck’s hand had unlocked and his wrists were free; the bed is comfortable under his back and the concept of moving is…really hard for a guy with serum induced muscles. He is just hazy, barely turning his head to look over at his fella sitting on the bed beside him, looking intently at one of Steve’s wrists in his hands, tenderly stroking a thumb over the vein.

“Hm. Was a good talk,” he slurs slightly. “Gonna have to do it again. Talking.”

That smile crosses Jim’s face and he leans down to press a gentle kiss to Steve’s forehead. “Agreed. We’ll talk more in the morning, Stevie. You’re still in that headspace. Ya needa sleep for a while, okay.”

He hums in agreement, not moving an inch. “Ya gonna stay?”

“Heh. Wild horses ain’t dragging me away, babe.” Jim wraps his arm around Steve’s chest and lifts them both up the bed, managing to dig the sheets out from under the blonde’s bulk to slip them both under. He curls Steve into his chest, so utterly _content_ he can barely keep his skin on, but manages to stay put and run his fingers through the shocks of damp hair to send him deeper under. Even breathing makes him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Here's phase one of Plan "I don't care about Civil War, my OT3 is going to be happy somehow, dammit." I haven't done much in the explicit realm so I hope this was pretty good. Again, thank-you to the peeps that leave kudos and comments and stuff that just makes me happy. Originally, I was going to write a few in-between scene but...well, yeah. I'm always open to suggestions.


	27. Why Aren't You an Engineer?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone find it funny that 'Engineer' is never part of Tony's usual rigamarole?

“So, I can’t help but notice, Stark,” this louder than normal, considering the Cap, _Steve_ , was getting on his way to hammered and his accent is more pronounced than any of the avenging types have ever heard, “yer little speech there. The one ya give whenever ya meet someone? ‘Tony Stark: Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philia-anthropist,’ ya know?”

Amused that his little modification to Pabst Blue Ribbon (that both Jim and Steve reminisced over) worked so well for not one but _two_ super soldiers (taking their twinkling eyes and lack of coordination into account; F.R.I.D.A.Y was documenting the whole progression for later research), Tony raises his eyebrows at Steve to indicate that _yes, he knows and what about it?_

Steve takes another pull from the unspectacular can while Jim Barnes, not even coming close in resembling the Soldier, chorts with laughter as Natasha (in one of her rare moments of humanity), tries to breathe through her laughing fit. Clint is grinning like a fool, his own long neck empty, helping his terrible Russian to be even worse.

“[ _Did he just say the monkey’s ass is with you, young paddle? What the **fuck** is that about?]” _ Barnes manages to ask Natasha while still trying to get a hold of himself and reverently hopes he’s not going to laugh so hard he throws-up, passes out, or pisses himself. He bends over the table, face already flushed as he desperately tries to suck in a breath.

And, that’s it. She rears back in the kitchen chair and gives up the ghost, laughing out loud with the empty vodka and cranberry on the table next to her left hand. Tears are in her eyes and her sides creak.

Bruce, calm with his rum and coke, is animatedly talking with Thor and the sober Vision. Thor’s eyes are a little glazed at the half-empty glass of some Asgardian amber-colored liquid, but he is giving the good doctor half of his attention while looking around the kitchen table at the assembled team, absurdly happy with his lot for the first time in so long. Anyone can see it in his stance, lounging in the kitchen chair with muscles lax and a small smile on his face. He’s actually wearing a faded t-shirt and sweat pants, his comfort showing as he is without armor.

Vision, obviously missing Wanda (who has already gone to bed, exhausted), is casting glances around while imputing his opinion in Banner’s excited stories. He seems to be inhaling data on relaxation and these familial instances. These interactions fascinated him even though he still maintained recall from the Artificial Intelligence, J.A.R.V.I.S.  The AI had not been able to be fully entranced in human interactions such as this; it/he had only been able to observe. These moments with the team created a quandary in his emotional matrix, a feeling he was not able to describe accurately. He would take more time to observe until better result could be quantified.

All of them here, in his Tower, with their human faces on makes Stark warm and not because of booze.

“Why is it,” back to Steve, Tony, his own tumbler of ice and also an amber liquid (that everyone assumes is his fallback, Scotch, but is really nothing more than spectacularly unspectacular sweet tea) dangling from his hand, shifts his eyes back. Steve’s blue, blue eyes are twinkling again as he grins, “that yer whole rigamarole’sss got nothing to do with bein’ an Engineer? Tony Stark: Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropists, Engineer.  I mean, damn man. You built Iron Man for goodness’ sakes. You work harder on your tech than _anyone_ , even that Jobs guy you were telling me about.”

And, there it was. 

Tony knows his expression falls before his mind can calculate a smug smile that is his outer shell. The question no one really thought to ask has a hidden power behind it.

Steve, in his state, didn’t really notice the expression on Stark’s face flicker as he presses on, “I mean, seriously. Your lab is _home_ , n’ it takes a herd of wild animals ta drag you away. Then some of the neat stuff you make it just awesome. That new suit saved my ass th’ last few times, Tony.” A wide grin, making the Cap look more boyish than super soldier falters around the edges when he catches Tony’s averted face. Some sobriety ekes through the haze when he takes in Tony’s calloused fingers tapping lightly against the covered arc reactor.

He throws on the metaphorical brakes and straightens immediately, expression sobering and earning a glance from Jim, who is still laughing at Clint’s horrible attempt at, you know, speaking. The whole, back-straight, atten- _hut_ motion makes Jim’s eyes follow Steve’s gaze to Stark’s suddenly blank expression.

The soldier blinks, staring at a Tony Stark he’s never seen before and he’s been in this Tower for almost a year, four months as an “addition” to the Avenger’s roster. He likes Stark (more than most people would probably deem appropriate even with all the progress society has made since his time) and knew the majority of his ‘fake’ masks: the interview mask, the press mask, the demonstration of new tech mask, the charity ball mask, the “I’m fine, coffee is enough for now” mask, the “sleep is for the weak” mask, the _just-came-back-from-a-mission-and-I’m-hurt-bad-but-don’t-want-anyone-to-know_ mask, and more. Hell, Jim even knew the real face of the guy, when he was exhausted, excited, enraged, all of it. He’d been there, been the fella that grabbed Stark’s tired ass from the workshop, ripped him out of Iron Man when the reactor went dead, threw him up over a shoulder when the party got a little too hard; shit, between him and Steve, they’d kept Stark on an more even keel than anyone in his life. To be fair, Stark had his fair share of tending them when life had gotten FUBAR. He still…he still hadn’t thanked Tony for so many things.

So, the face that was utterly blank. Yeah, cause for concern.

Once he realized Jim was looking too, the fake persona fills his eyes. He smirks without feeling his face move. “Why, you ask, _mon Capitano_? Seriously, the press like a neat, clipped catch phrase, like ‘I’ll be bahk,’ or something that rhymes, just rolls off the tongue so it’s easier to print and look good. ‘Do you know the way to San Jose?’“ The others that had fallen silent laugh, his jokes landing easily, but Steve and Jim are just suddenly very sober. “Besides, I’m eccentric as hell, remember? Four words, a nice round number. You know how many nuts and bolts hold the seams of Iron Man together? Take a guess, also a round number.”

And he’s off with the ramble, getting himself neatly out from under those looks while Clint and Tasha keep laughing and Bruce entertains Thor with better stories. Vision, his old friend JARVIS, just gives him a half-smile that means everything and nothing since, well, since Tony had no idea what kind of data the new lifeform may have retained from the old AI. Tony just keeps up his form of duck and cover, steering the conversation back to the others so he can get away from the spotlight.

His mind, that specific machine, gears and code moving with organic processes, kept running like a fucking Duracell through massive trauma, sleep deprivation, fear, depression, sadness, joy, agony—its’ continuous grinding never stopped. It’s the only reason why SI flourished more under him than his father; the ideas never stopped for Tony. Howard Stark, however, had almost given up after Steve was lost in the ice.

As shitty as it was, Stark men had no room for weakness, and to Howard, Tony was the epitome of his weaknesses personified. At six, the kid made his first engine, landing himself on the cover of a magazine as a technical prodigy (not his first time the public spotlight but the first that made him hopeful his father would finally realize he had some _value_ in the world); a creation that gave SI a new product on the market and paved the way for better, longer lasting tech. It was a move that should have made Howard Stark proud of his offspring—or, at the very least pleased Tony had inherited his brilliance. What it did instead was amplify Howard’s own frustrations that his designs were becoming more and more flawed, his ideas running thin even after hours and hours in his workshop trying to create the next greatest invention.

When Howard finally emerged, seeing Tony at the table with crayon drawings of things that could actually _work_ , the older Stark become more and more bitter, more jealous of his own son. Of course, none of that stopped him from telling Tony just how ridiculous his ideas were, how flawed his thought processes must be while crumpling the drawings in a large fist to “throw away.”  In reality, those ideas usually made their way to SI’s R&D Department while the child was utter destroyed at his failures but trying to maintain the Stark ideal of strength without weakness.

It wasn’t until Tony was sixteen, a year in at MIT, when he realized what had happened for the large majority of his childhood. He’d taken his time to review SI’s creations over the last decade in an attempt to make something that would function as new SI product _and_ his end-of-the-year senior project. What he found out was staggering.

The last eleven years of SI tech was derived from his childish inventions, toned and tweaked to fit an ever expanding market. The company made its’ millions off his ideas, _his_ tech, not his father’s, but when he hacked all SI servers, looked over the original blue prints and plans, all of them had Howard Stark’s neat signature. All of the weapons were derived from Tony’s ideas; the tracking systems, the first-generation StarkPad and Stark Phone made for military application, the concept of forest clustering servers, the Hyper V-like storage capabilities, power coding with triple-threat encryption…all of it came from the youngest Stark.  It was then that Tony Stark became acquainted with the hard reality of how big business is done, what was needed to make it in the world, and his father had just done whatever he had to in order to make Stark Industries a leader in the world market.  He understood the underlying motivations, probably a little too well.

Never mentioning his discovery to either parent or Obie, Tony let the knowledge sink in for a few months while he finished up his final project: the creation of a ‘learning robot’ assistant (DUM-E) and presented it.  It was after his period of reflection that he began his habit of duality, working on multiple projects at one time.  He’d complete his work for classes (or the work he felt was actually relevant and worth his time), but on the side, he developed special pet projects associated with the existing ones at SI.  Instead of sending them to his father, it was easier to hack Howard’s rudimentary email systems and send them from Howard’s own user account (they guy had the same password for everything _CapPeggy40_ ). The plans were all second-stage and had a pilfered digital copy of Howard Stark’s signature at the usual place. Designs for military jets, better functioning engines, laser citing systems, the whole shebang went to R&D under his father’s name. On his brief trips home for holiday and summer breaks, Howard never mentioned the phenomena and neither did Tony.  He went to SI with his father to learn how daily operations were run, staying out of the way but observing everything, watching his ideas become reality in mass produced increments. 

The car wreck that took his parent’s lives two years later ended the need for secrecy, honest. It did. Tony could have stepped in as CEO and began patents under his own name, no problem.  Well, problem. He was just the build-it guy, the mask of playboy, and no one really believed he was smart enough to be the creative force behind the variety of products from SI.  Not even Obie believed in him, just telling Tony to “enjoy his last year at MIT, be young. Don’t worry about running the business. Let R&D make the next generation of tech.”

Yeah, sure.  Those slackers hadn’t created anything worth a damn since 1965. So, Tony Stark did what he did best: took care of the company on the down-low. His designs came with just the simple SI logo when they hit the desks of R&D (he was pretty sure they all knew it was him sending new products to create anyway, but none of them had the guts to ask about it though).  The only one that really knew about his real creative genius, while still keeping his part in the new line _and_ upgrades to existing tech secretive, was Pepper. It was an old argument between them. That patents were created under Stark Industries, not specified to Tony Stark himself, but at least they were successful, making billions, who cared what names were on it all?

His PA. The PA that went home while he stayed long hours, working on more innovation (while working on his MA and Doctoral degrees later on). His PA that watched him play up his image to take the most trashed starlets home just to let them sleep it off in his guest room while he went back to work until morning when he could shower, meet them at the door, and assure them what a great time he’d had.  Pep always knew, had _always_ know what bullshit he did to make sure the reputation was exactly what he wanted it to be.  She hated it, had hated the whole thing, but put up with it for his sake.

Once Afghanistan happened…once Obie turned out to be a murdering bastard, he stepped up (well, not for long, he made _Pepper_ step-up so he could just be the build-it guy) to finally drive Stark Industries into _his_ direction. Not his father’s, not Obie’s, _his_. He created the tech _he_ wanted, and the company was even more prosperous with news of clean energy, creating more recyclable, reusable hardware, of opening up communications, of defense rather than offense. He could drive the world mentality to protection rather than destruction…

Or so, he could have in a perfect world. Killian would still make guns with deadly projectiles (SI made epic stun guns now), bombs and missiles, and the whole shebang.  There would always be the company that did, always be buyers, but at least SI could do its’ part to combat the effort.

Everyone was finally saying good-night, Clint helping a weaving Nat, Thor keeping a friendly hand on Bruce’s shoulder while they laughed, Vision retreating with a nod to them all, and the elevator swooshes open to take them all to their respective floors. Tony sits back at the table with a fond look at the wavering group.

Jim, out of nowhere, snatches the tumbler and takes a small sip, eyes narrowing at the non-booze content. He gives Stark an amazed look, but Tony takes the opportunity to take his tumbler back, standing up to stretch his cramped back muscles.

“All right boys, I’m heading off too.”  There was more to be done in the workshop. Always was. Steve’s bike needed an new plugs and wires (badly), Clint’s new arrowheads could use another once-over before production, the results of Bruce’s bioengineering study from that last bout of deadly plants was still in his email, and—

“Tony,” Steve said again, finally getting the mechanic’s attention.

“Sorry Cap,” giving his usual smirk, Tony hitches a hip against the table. “What do you need?”

Steve gives him a half gin and Stark wonders if he and Jim are holding hands under the table now that everyone is gone… _don’t get started on that nonsense again, asshole. They’re perfect together_.

“We’re just wondering,” Jim drawls, “what the real story is, Mister Engineer?”

Ah, caught in his bullshit. Should have known. Not even shaken, said engineer gives a genuine smile to the two super-soldiers, “maybe…maybe someday, I’ll tell you. Not tonight, though. Work to do, as usual.” He turns with a wave over one shoulder and lets the returned elevator close behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just because


	28. Bonus Drabble: The Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony needs to save the day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting to post this. Enjoy.

Strains of Sammy Hagar’s “Remember the Heroes” makes Tony perk from underneath a massive engine block hanging from chains overhead. He’s never had that ringtone go off before, usually Cap just comes to his workshop himself…

“Answer,” Tony calls. “Hey Capsicle. What’s going on?”

Since Agent, well _Director_ Coulson took over duties with Stark Security Analysis and Response Action Service, Tony had room to _fucking fix his own tech_ again. It was like living the dream all over again. He had grease up to his elbows, in his damn hair (again), and is armpit deep in an engine. Other words: **heaven**. Nothing crazy had even been happening for a few days, so he could build some new stuff and damned if he hadn’t even gotten the oil changed in Steve’s ’37 Flathead (heathen, wouldn’t even _hear_ talk of the XA).

“Tony, I…I have—a situation.” His voice is low, whispering.

The engineer is already on his feet and moving toward the suits grease and all. “Where are you?  I can be on my way—“

“Not, not that kind of situation, Tony. No saving the world, don’t need Iron Man.”

Pause, “you don’t sound like your normal patriotic self, Steve. What’s wrong?”

“We’re…we’re kind of, well…”

“Steve,” the warning in Tony’s voice is enough.

“Surrounded.”

The clang of tools hitting the ground can be heard over the phone. Stark is _again_ heading for the case of suits, this time touching the panel that will open up for the Mark XIV, “hold on. Just hold on, Steve—“

“I mean, they’re really nice, Tony, but we can’t get _away_. They want us to sign stuff and _talk_ and Buck’s starting to get antsy. We had to duck in the washroom and climb out the window for goodness sake. That’s how persistent these people are.”

Another Pause. “Wait. Rewind that. You mean you’re surrounded by… _fangirls_? Captain America needs a hand because you can’t handle _fangirls_?” Did he drink one of DUM-E’s tainted smoothies…? Is the flashback from that one time in Monaco when he did that thing with those group of hippie co-eds…? Is this a Hydra trick and they’re really waiting outside to snatch him up or something…?

“Well, not all of them are dames, Tony. They just think we’re really aces and have so many _questions_ about everything.  Alota stuff neither of us get, okay? What the heck is” the voice ducks away for a second and Steve is asking, “what was it?” Then Steve’s back to him, “we don’t know what this _Tumbler_ thing is or Stacky,” Cap’s voice fades away for a second, “it’s what now?” then he’s back, “Buck says it’s _Stucky_ , but whatever, Tony, it’s getting out of hand.”

_Oh God, how can—_ Tony bites the inside of his cheek **hard**. “Can—Can you just tell them you’ve got to go?” He so deserves that medal for not _dying_.

Steve replies helplessly, “we’re hiding in the alley by the diner and there’s just a bunch of ‘em milling around outside. They think we’re still in there and they aren’t _leaving_.  We can’t slip away without them all following us. I need a hand here.”

Still trying so very hard to be a good person, only a small noise escapes him.  He pointedly bites on his fist this time.

“For the love of—all right. Go on then.”

The rolling, deep belly laugh escapes until Tony is sitting on the floor in the middle of his workshop, both arms around his abdomen because his sides _hurt so much_ and tears. Just, tears.

It’s a good ten minutes, has to be. Cap is patiently irritated.

“I shoulda called Sam.” Muffled again, “you were right. Shoulda called Sam.”

“Told ya.” Is audible.

“No, no. I’m on my way,” finally wiping off his face, Tony can actually stand up.

“You have no idea where we’re at.”

 “Are you using a phone?”

“Well, of course, I am Tony. How else would I be calling you?” Irritate again, oh so worth it. This is just all so worth it.

“Then I can find you. Sit tight, I’m on my way. Oh, Steve?” Tony grabs his phone, a set of keys, and shades before going down to the parking garage for a very unassuming Audi.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let any of them grope you. Watch the hands.” His face hurts with the force of his grin. Oh, this, this is just priceless.

“Tony!!”

“Be there soon.” He revs the engine, heedless of the dark smudges he’s getting everywhere. “J.J, calculate Cap’s signal, send coordinates to my phone.”

“Of course, Sir…Location determined, signal sent.”

How the hell Steve and Jim got all the way out in _Brooklyn_ on foot no less is beyond Tony, but he pilots the car with ease through the streets, pulling a Happy Hogan by taking back alleys and short cuts throughout the city.

As he expected, the signal leads to a block of run-down apartment building that are probably as old as the city itself, if not more so.  Some are abandoned, more than likely only housing the homeless population, but there are indeed the usual New York crowds milling around.  Tony slows the ride, watching out for car jackers, keeping his low grade stun gun in the door pocket beside his leg for the possibility of thieves and bat-shit crazy assassins. Because, well, reasons (well, that and he can’t just repulsor every car jacker, the police really don’t like it).

He finally catches a sign hanging almost off the hinges, worn with age when his phone emits a beep.  Well, not that he really needs it because the can see the bodies jam packed inside that give the indication he’s in the right place; honestly, how good can the food be? He eases the car right past the large window front and checks out the crowd; the shirts are milling around, the ones with the original Cap shield design on them, and…wow, is that really a guy with Reynold’s Wrap around his arm with masking tape? Really…? He almost stops the car just to go in there and offer to help the guy with a better job because honestly, it’s so…just, no. No. Even the attempt to use tin foil to simulate _his tech_ makes his engineering Jedi Mind power go crazy.  Like a million IT nerds just cried out in agony

From a side alley, the wide shoulders of Captain America in a t-shirt and jeans appear, hauling a likewise dressed Jim right behind him. The two duck their heads away from the obvious mob still hoping to see Captain America and the Winter Soldier out for a good burger in their old neighborhood. Steve rips the door open and the two throw themselves in the back seat. They both look adorably flustered, not daring to straighten until Tony pulls away from the curb.

“All right. This is my first extraction without the suit. Rock on.” He flashes the peace sign over his shoulder while maneuvering the Audi around traffic. “We’ll call this ‘hashtag, wintercapwinning.’”

“I don’t get that reference,” Steve said absently, glancing out the back window, his hand still holding onto Bucky’s, thumb absently making little circles on the back of his hand.

“Don’t feel left out in the rain, neither do I.” Jim takes off his baseball cap and grins in Stark’s rearview. “Thanks for the pick-up. We gotcha one too.” He dangles a white bag up the mirror for Tony to see.

“Aw, you didn’t? Not while a mini Comic-Con dedicate to your utter _awesomeness_ was going on inside,” he can’t help it, really, just he can’t help it. “I mean, a guy with Renyold’s wrap is _fucking dedication_ , right?”

“Already gave you the freebie, Tony,” Steve mock warns in exasperation.

“Ah, that was the racket in the background? Mook was laughing at us, was he?”

Tony hums, tilting his head so Jim can see him smiling.

“That’s just too bad, I gotcha the good homecut fries too. With seasoning salt instead of the regular stuff.”

Grabby hand motion over the seat, “gimmie. I left my _workshop_ to come save you two damsels in distress. I deserve fries at the very least.”

The two soldiers laugh at him for that, eyes twinkling as Bucky takes out the cup stuffed with said fries and hands it over. Setting it in the cup holder, Tony hums in delight.

“So, what were you two doing there anyway? I mean, that’s far for a good burger.”

Cap opens his mouth, but Jim’s the one that actually answers, “it’s been too long since I went home. Wanted to see what they’d done to the place in the last seventy years or so.”

Tony hums around the fries in his mouth because he _knows_ when the train is picking up steam.

“I can’t believe the Rollins apartment is a Dry Cleaners now,” Cap starts up the hem hawing.

“Yeah, hate that Ma’s old place was knocked down, but I guess it’s a pretty okay McDonald’s now. Progress and all.” The hint of sadness in his tone makes Steve’s hand tighten around Jim’s cradle the hand in both his big paws, and Tony remains silent while he drives, taking the main route this time so he can give the two time to digest.

“The old park is gone, too,” Steve adds, “the one where we—“

Jim laughs unabashed, “first place I kissed you in public, punk. Think I wouldn’t remember that?”

Cap sighs helplessly, “you almost got us _caught_ , Buck.”

“I coulda talked us outta it, long enough to run.”

“I _couldn’t_ run back then, jerk.”

“Sure you could, only when you had a reason to! When old lady Martin down the block thought you stole her paper?”

“That was you.”

“Course it was, but she _thought_ it was you,” the smug smile on one solder and sparkle in the eyes of the other he can see in the rearview makes the corners of Tony’s mouth quirk.

“She gave me the evil eye ever since, you know that right?”

“But she always gave _me_ free nickel candy that I, in turn, shared with _you,_ Stevie.”

“That don’t make it any better!”

“We got what we needed anyhow. Besides, she just talked me up to that old bastard and got me the job at the bank later on. Making connections, punk.”

“You ran their copy, Buck, it was a terrible job at best.”

“Well, I met those two dames running for ‘em. Remember? Red-head and the blonde? Best cover we ever had…”

Tony chuffs, getting lost in the flow of their banter while picking out fries with his greasy fingers, and the rhythm of traffic to head back to New York. He’s in a calm headspace, lack of sleep finally getting to him maybe?

“Tones? Hey, doll face. You there?” A gloved hand appears beside his cheek, fingers snapping close to his ear.

“Yeah, yeah. Two dames was it?” He repeats with a grin, bringing the car around the garage entrance of the Tower.

“That was a _while_ ago. Stark. You okay up there?  How long you been awake?”

The engineer rolls his eyes before he leans out and lets the scanner do its thing to his eye with a “ _Welcome Mr. Stark_.”

“I have even breached fifty hours yet, Jim, so pull back on the mother hen,” he glances in the rearview again, “hey, did you know Steve went outside once _without a sweater_? Aaand, go!”

Cap’s eyes are hysterically wide with part fear, part betrayal when Bucky shoots him a glare but apparently decides to deal with him later.

“Uh-hu, King of Deflection over there. Not. Gonna. Work.” Jim points that finger as the car slides into the usual space and is raised up to Tony’s personal garage. “Besides, you’re gonna come up to our floor and eat your burger so we can finally watch that _dumb_ show and you can explain it to us.”

“What dumb show?”

“Steve figured out the DVR, so we been recording stuff like Ninja Warrior and—“

“He’s talking about _The Big Bang Theory_ , Tony. This episode is got a bunch of gobblygook we don’t get, so—“

“So you actually _use_ the DVR now, Cap? I’m stunned. Pleased yet stunned.” The floor of the garage adjacent to his workshop closes and the lights come on brighter. Tony opens the door to get himself out, patting the door as he closes it.

 “ _Tony_ , c’mon, I been waiting to watch is since _Monday_.” Jim is out of the car faster than Steve, still carrying the burger in a white bag while Tony moves back to the engine he’d been under less than an hour ago and all the parts are still scattered around in Tony-approved piles of ‘put back,’ ‘scrap,’ or ‘fix since McLaren doesn’t know their shit.’

Cap doesn’t even let go of the previous statement, “Yes, Mr. Stark, I actually _paid attention_ when you showed me how to use it the last time.”

“Oh good, because that lesson of **_not throwing metal things in the garbage disposal_** apparently didn’t take as well.” He waves a wrench at the blonde for emphasis before sticking his whole arm down in the engine block and getting up on his toes to reach.

“That was only one time—“

“Twice. Coffee pot counts, Steve,” and Tony is in the block up to the shoulders.

“Okay, twice, but I haven’t done that in _months_.”

“Probably because Jim is keeping you on the straight and narrow with my tech, isn’t he? Because _someone_ respects all the hard work I put into it.”

Jim smirks at Steve, “that’s why I get all the new stuff first, Stevie. Tony knows.”

The Cap rolls his eyes the second his best fella looks back to the mechanic.

“All right, Tones, hey buddy, ya got a burger here and we got some Big Bang to watch. The engine’ll be here _later_ , right? I mean, your genius isn’t going to disappear in the next hour, _and_ you’ll work better after a greasy feast.” The self-sacrificing sigh is enough to know they’ve won because one talent of James Barnes is his exceptional ability to be a charming, charismatic pain in the ass.

“Fine. Just, fine. Let me wash up and we’ll go watch your episode.”

“Two!” Jim shoves two metal fingers at him, “the one from last week too, Tony. Like, an hour, you can spare that.”

“All right, all right, _two_ episodes, then I’m coming back to _finish working on my engine_ , capisce?”

Both super soldiers nod in agreement as Stark goes over to the hidden bathroom door and proceeds to use the heavy duty soap to get the grease off his hands and arms, grumbling to himself about how much of a pansy those two are making him and how absolutely adorable it is that he keeps giving in…

His whole thought process **stops**. Immediately. He’s got the warmth in his belly thinking about them (like when he used to think about Pepper in bed in the mornings and the sun hit her just right), the tingly, sappy happiness whenever one of them comes to call him out of the workshop or ask how his meeting went, or call him first because they _need him_ specifically. He’s fallen too hard for the super soldiers, all his effort to steer clear of that trap of emotions just goes all the fuck and Tony is just staring at his own shocked face in the mirror while the water runs.

“Shit,” he says to himself.

“Hey! Ya taking a bath, doll face? C’mon! Big Bang, Tony, don’t fall asleep in there.” Shaking himself, Tony dries his hands and swallows, takes a few breaths to calm down. He can do this, he can be their bestie, it’ll all be _fine_. It has to be because he can’t lose them. They’re his best friends and he can’t just _lose_ them. So, he’s going to bury these stupid feelings and just keep walking, keep working, keep joking with them and being what they need him to be.

He’s got his mask in place when he finally walks back out, “all right already! Geeze, do you even _know_ how hard it is to get engine grease off? Give me a break, here.”  He holds up both hands for inspection.

Jim and Steve are both grinning at him fondly, walking on either side of him to the elevator like super soldier book ends. “I swear, Tony,” Cap is saying with a shake of his head, “if you didn’t have us, you’d never get out of this place.”

“Rude! I would still get out and fly the suits just for shits and giggles because _flying_. One of these days, I’ll take you both and you can see what I mean.”

Jim quirks a brow as the elevator door closes, “you’ve flown us _both_ before, Stark. It’s all right.”

“I’ve flown you two into fighting on _missions_ ; totally different when you’re flying for fun. It’s so much better when there’s no huge monsters, killer robots, missiles flying at your head, what have you, to take away from the scenery.”

The two do that couple, eye slide thing, and Cap crosses his arms over his chest. “All right then, pencil us in for a flying lesson at your earliest convenience, Mr. Stark. We’ll take you up on it.”

The elevator opens to Steve/Jim’s floor and mechanic is herded to the entertainment area while Jim veers off to the kitchen for a plate and possible warm-up of the burger. Steve sits beside Tony and fumbles with the remotes for a few minutes, showing the engineer that _yes, he can use all of them_ (sort of, mostly, nothing has been broken in weeks, Tony, stop laughing). Tony does not at all silently judge him and the list of things they record until—“Oh no, not _Real Housewives!_ The ones from _Jersey_? I’m so disappointed in you right now, Cap. Just…so disappointed.”

Steve doesn’t even hesitate but hitches a thumb over his shoulder without looking; Jim, standing by the counter, timidly raises one hand.

Tony gapes at the soldier’s back, “all my preconceived notions are just shot to hell, you know. _The Winter Soldier_ screams death and guns and blood and _pain_ and The Real Housewives?! Mind blown over here.”

“So? Steve likes that Honey Boo-Boo kid!”

“Do not! I watched _one_ time—“

“You loved it.”

“Bull.”

“How many episodes are on that thing, then?”

“I did it by accident! I’m not good with this stuff, you know.”

“Stevie please. No one’s gonna be gullible enough to buy that.” Jim shakes his head as he crosses the room, putting a plate in Tony’s hands, a bottle of water on the coffee table in front of him, and flops down on his other side.

The two side-eye him as he takes a bite and damn, it is a good burger.

“Right?” Steve parrots, still looking through the list of their recordings, opening up the **Big Bang Theory** folder.

Tony just nods, too busy inhaling the greasy feast with obvious relish.

Jim’s pointing at the screen, “okay, that one first! That’s the one from last week right? _The Discovery Dissipation_?”

“Yeah, I think so. Okay,” Cap presses play and they sit back to watch.

**

Before episode two is done, Tony is sitting sideways, cheek pressed into the overstuffed pillow of their couch, eyes closed. A warm throw has been delicately laid over him to cover his arms are loosely crossed over the arc reactor while he breathe deep with sleep. Over him, the two soldiers share a fist bump.


	29. Not While I'm Still Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well…this is just a terrible bad guy hideout. Tony is considering making a PowerPoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter *fans self* THIS chapter.

“Once—just _once_ —can’t evil lairs be, gee I don’t know, tasteful?”

  ** _Pain_**.

 If he was anyone else on the planet (spy/assassins, super soldiers, gods, mutants, sentient beings, and hulking rage machines notwithstanding), he’d be screaming, crying, begging, giving up his mother’s secret recipe or the location of Jimmy Hoffa or who was really on the grassy knoll, anything to make the pain stop.

But, he’s Tony Stark. He’s been tortured by the pros, like _end game_ torture and this was…incredibly pathetic by comparison. Really? Brass knuckles? Is this the 80’s Throwback terrorist organization?

After he can get a full breath back, he grins again. “C’mon, seriously? Get some nice, modern couches, some chrome fixtures, throw pillows, and you’re styling. I have the number of a great guy…”

One of the lounging henchmen actually chorts, snorting out a laugh. His partner elbows him in the side but the guy with the knuckles just pauses. _Wait until Barton hears this. That’s at least twenty points_.

“Get your phone out, I’ll give you his number.”

“Shut. Up.” Followed by a side punch, right in the spot where he’s torn himself up on the shitty armor a few months ago.

Damn thing was still sore sometimes even if the skin had long-ago closed up.

“Uh. What—“ he coughs, “not a fan of foreplay?”

The guy actually straightens up and throws up his goddamned hands, “can you believe this guy?” He asks his fellow henchmen ( _that’s sexist, Stark, hench **person**_ ).

“We just need his passwords and access codes,” one of other said with the placating gesture. “Once we got that, he’s somebody else’s problem.”

“Didn’t even start out with ‘please’.” Tony bitches good-naturedly, realizing he’s grinning at them with blood smeared all over his teeth.

“Not going to, Stark. We’ve got orders.”

He laughs a little, “even if I gave you the keys to SI—“

“We want the codes for the Tower, Mr. Stark.”

The mechanic just stares at them, “you mean my passcodes for _Avenger’s Tower_ ? The Tower that happens to house this guy called the Hulk? Who just happens to have a creepy hobby of smashing bones into paste? Like, a really _morbid_ hobby, but who am I to judge—“

Right hook to the jaw, keep relaxed and roll with the punches so nothing major gets broken. Tony turns back as Knuckles is shaking out his hand (like he has room to complain) and suddenly, the light comes on. Tony’s body goes cold with implications and the pain fades with adrenaline.

Fuck no. Fucking _hell_ no.

 His fingers, the right ones hidden behind the left hand that are chained individually above his head, move a little faster. His expression change, however, gives him away.

 “He’s figured it out already. Genius.”

“It won’t help him.”

Quietly, Tony stares them down, “You won’t get passed the Avengers, even with my passwords and codes. They won’t let you touch him.”

Henchmen 2, lounging back by the rusted sink just shrugs one shoulder, “we need the designs of his arm, since he wiped that shit out when he took the last compound. It won’t be hard to get to him, we’ve got the trigger word, so he’ll just be doing all the fighting for us.”

Knuckles looks over his shoulder long enough to say, “will you shut the hell up, man? Iron Man doesn’t _need to know_ the specifics! He’s not drawing up the plans to help break into his own Tower or something!”

 _Click_. The release isn’t that audible while Knuckles is berating, the next shackle is cake before he turns back.

“You know, he’s been beating the program for months. The trigger word won’t work.”

The guy in the back laughs a little, this time not in mirth. “Not with the right code word, Stark. This guy,” he gestures to Henchmen/person 3 beside him with a thumb, “says Ouroboros and the Soldier is auto-wiped.”

Knuckles punched Henchmen/person 2 **dead in the face** , “you stupid SHIT! Why would you tell him _that?_ ”

From the floor, the other guy whines, “who’s he gonna tell? He’s got no suit, no phone, and he’s out in the middle of nowhere!” Blood is just in a pool on the terrible linoleum.

“You’re a terrible Henchperson,” Tony blurts out, unable to help himself.

“You see what they give me to work with?” Knuckles just shakes his head, staring down at his…co-worker…? It’s whatever, he’s already got, like, the next six moves planned out before the goons-of-the-month can trigger the big alarm button on the wall over there.

“Besides,” Tony needs Knuckles closer to him, “the human brain can’t just ‘auto-wipe’ with a trigger word like that. It’s impossible, no matter how much those dick-bags brainwashed him and wiped out his memories. The brain is a _living_ thing, not a computer with the blue screen of death. You can’t just control, alt, delete him and end process. That’s _not how it works with people_.” Sometimes, emphasis helps.

Knuckles does come closer, a little too close to lean down and put his masked face close to Tony’s, “it’s all about the _tech_ , Stark. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Tony Stark, Iron Man, didn’t figure it out, huh? Guess we’ll see what the Soldier can do once he’s activated again.”

That’s all he needs. Validation there was something more at play here.

_You’re not getting your hands on him. Over my dead body._

One hand jerks the chain down and he’s up, leaping up at Knuckle to throw the chain his throat and swing around for momentum before the idiot realizes what’s happening. When his face slams into the concrete floor with Tony’s weight and muscle behind it, he slumps. The swing, however, puts him in the right place to kick standing Henchperson right in the face with his already twisted knee, but the kick breaks his nose beautifully.  Henchperson on the floor leaps up immediately, but Stark is pissed at the mere _thought_ of them getting him back that his fists are flying, boxing, going for the most dangerous jabs. He wants these guys down for the count.

A few zip ties and a pilfered cell phone later (no guns, knives, or even paperclips, really, terrible Henchpeople), Tony is already calling the Cap, easing open the door for a stealthy look around. Of course, long hallway, multiple doors, yada, yada. Hadn’t he told them about _tasteful_ evil lairs? For next time, he’d bring a PowerPoint. Something to consider as he moves silently down the hallway, pausing at any open doors to peer in before moving on.

He’s betting on Cap to be a guy that can’t just ignore a phone call even if the number isn’t one he recognizes (the guy still listens through a telemarker’s spiel before politely turning down their offers of new windows or a better cell provider or whatever).

Luckily, he’s right. “Rogers.” A lot of noise in the background. Quinjet maybe.

“Cap. Listen, right now, you need to get Jim—“

“Good Lord, Tony? **_Tony_**?! Are you all right? We’re already—“

“ **Shut up** and listen to me now,” he hisses, pausing before a staircase going up, “Jim. They want _Jim_ . They have a code word to activate him, re-activate the Soldier. Get him away, get him somewhere safe, somewhere isolated. Do it now, Steve. _Right fucking now_.” He’s moving up the stairs, two at a time, trying to keep his body from holding him back at the pain. It’s still in the foreground, but his damn knees feels like it’s been dislocated and put back.

“Tony, listen, we’re—“

“Ouroboros, Steve. That’s the word. _Ouroboros_. They said it would auto-wipe him, they _can fucking auto-wipe him_. Get him away, get him somewhere no one can get to him until I figure—Fuck. Hi boys and girls. Pardon me, hench _people_.”

He drops the phone as Steve yells his name. He’s in fight mode, sans suit. He’s in protect mode, as in fight dirty (Clint’s words), use every trick in the book, throw them like they weigh as much as the Hulk (Steve’s comparison), go for the soft, vulnerable parts (the Nat in his head tells him). His side screams with strain, his fists come back bloody, but he can’t stop, the next move, the next hit, the next person has to go down or could get to Jim before Steve can. All of them are a threat; if they can stop Tony, then Jim is next on the list. Teeth crack under his fist, his knees comes up while his hands bring a neck down so he can put some _feeling_ into the abdominal blow. The guy is on his side gagging.

He uses anything in the room he can, breaking a chair over one guy’s face, taking a very shoddy looking cabinet door and slams it into another, the metal ringing out beautifully as he spins low to take a knee out with it on the next. Drop it to come up with a punch right in the third’s dick, make sure he’s not getting back up for a while. Whirl around to snag a pen and jab it right in the artery. Messy but effective.

He’s good without the suit, fast, and lanky, he’s got muscle most normal people don’t have. He’s a mechanic, he hefts sheets of metal, pounds out the dents in the armor, pulls and beats on engine parts, and it’s his _life_. He trains with Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, and the Winter Soldier on a regular just for this, this “in case” shit.

His elbow smashing hard into a face with grim satisfaction and, finally, finally, the last one goes down. He feels like fuck. _No time, move it Stark_.

The phone was crushed in the scuffle, Tony moves quickly around the room, pulling two Glock .45s that went against his hips, held up by his belt. Two clips fit in each pocket and another two from the guy that was no longer gagging but enjoying unconsciousness.

He needs to keep moving up. The next set of stairs goes up at least two flights and Stark keeps both guns pointed at the floor while the other two rub as he moves, watching above and below for any noise that could be the next wave. He breathes deep before nudging open the door at the top of the stairwell and looking around before sliding through and easing the door shut behind him. No alarms yet. Why the hell don’t they have video cameras in every room? Seriously, Hydra needs to get up on being a better terrorist organization. This is just…wow. Just incredibly disappointing.

_These guys took SHIELD down? What did they have, a rubber band, a paper clip, and a ball of yarn? I bet they have black and white surveillance cameras. I’ll throw down money with Clint._

He makes mental notes for new policies at SSARAS. The other part of his attention is moving down the hall, senses painfully alert at the strange _lack_ of henchpeople when he finally looks in an open room with a massive computer. _Cha-ching_.

He only lays down one of the Glocks, using the free hand to start infiltrating their systems, hacking the lines of code to gain top level access. Without J.J. or F.R.I.D.A.Y, he’s working under stress but still downloads all the information he can get his hands on and slips the CD into his jacket.  His senses are painfully alert to any noise coming from the opposite side of that door, and his own heartbeat is pounding in his ears.  It takes approximately twelve minutes, thirty-eight second to create a worm program, one that would eat all data in the connecting network and infiltrate any other connecting hubs. He layers it with four levels of encryption. He wanted it to eat them alive.

 _T_ _ry to block it, deleted it, stop it, and two more strains of the virus will propagate. Take that, assholes._

Voices, boots echoing down the hall. _Fuck, out of time._ They’re not going to pin him down in here. Hell, no.

He has the other Glock and rolls his shoulder one good time before breathing and starts to the door. Most people, stupidly, assume he’s nothing without the suit, or as a past weapons designer, he didn’t really _know_ how to use the simplest one. To those critics, Tony Stark would laugh a little before asking them how the hell they think he should design weapons with at least knowing the mechanics if not using them like a good little Merchant of Death? He’s rusty, but he’s still probably a pretty decent shot.

Arms loose, Tony peeks out the door, Hydra coming from the left but the right is still open, clear. He raises the Glocks with surprisingly steady hands and opens fire before they know what hit them. He’s aiming high enough for head shots, neck shots, whatever is needed to take the mass of uniformed agents down. It has to be fast in case there are others in the stairwell waiting for him. He’s got the clear the way and find the next level up.

Blinking at each shot, he ducks around the corner when heat whizzes around him and one actually takes a hunk out of his shoulder. He drops to his knees and fires around the corner regardless, calculating how many shots he has left in each clip.  The return fire finally stops. His knee throbs but he’s up and moving in the opposite direction, opening doors to find the next damn stairwell before the alarms start going off.  The gun fight _had_ to have been heard, others would be coming soon.

“There he is!”

Shit. Sucks to be right sometimes. 

Behind him, more terribly dressed agents with Hydra patches are moving and he’s boxed in, no time to make it to the stairwell and hope to take them out there.  He’s going to make his stand right here. Both guns come up, fingers on the triggers and his dad’s voice is just suddenly in his head out of nowhere, _‘breathe in, Tony, then squeeze the trigger.’_

Before he can, gunfire erupts in rapid fire. _AR-15_ , he thinks insanely, throwing himself against the wall, one gun on each direction. But, the rapid fire doesn’t even touch him, and the Winter Soldier moves forward a step at a time with the assault rifle blazing. Jim’s in full Hydra gear, even that goddamn mask covering his lower face, black around his eyes as he takes out the mass without even blinking at each shot.  The involuntary twitch had been trained out of him. The metal of his arm is the only thing winking in the overhead lights. 

Fear and shock blossom in Tony’s chest ( _what the **hell** is he doing here?! Goddammit, Steve! You had  **one**  job!_), but he’s firing into the crowd alongside Jim, emptying the clips and quickly reloading from the ones stashed in his pants pockets. He goes for throat shots now. 

When the last one is down, Tony turns to Jim, only seeing half his expression, paying attention to those grey eyes, cold and hard. 

“Jim,” the fear is there, making his tone wobble. _Am I too late? Did they get to him?_  

The Soldier turns his head just an iota, but the corners of his eyes crinkle like they do when he’s smiling. He winks. 

Tony’s back hits the wall, “thank Fuck. Oh Christ, thank fuck.”  Relief is so palpable, his knees and hands are shaking. He bends over a little, clenching around the hilts to try and steady himself. 

“Tony, hey. Good ta see you in one piece but yer looking bad. We need to get you topside, everyone’s waiting.” 

Completely contrasting the outfit, it’s Jim’s voice, Jim’s old school Brooklyn accent, coming out of the Soldier. His eyes narrow, a wrinkle in his brow that’s concern. “Geeze, ya jerk, did you get shot, too? I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?” 

He puts one of the guns under his arm, and taps the communicator in his ear, “got him. We’re three floors down. Extraction starting now. We’ll need medical when we hit topside. He’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Let Bruce know.” 

Something and Tony’s got his wind back. They can get through three floors, no problem. 

“Hey, Tony. Stay with me. C’mon, we’ve gotta get you—“ 

“Ear buds. Do you have your ear buds? Tell me you’ve got them.” Stark demands instead, keeping an eye on either side of the hall. 

Using his free hand, Jim opens a pouch on his belt and pulls out the wireless buds, holding them out in one palm. 

“Put them in, now. Keep the music on full blast,” Finally, Tony straightens, popping the clip out of one Glock and then other with steadier hands. His shoulder is bleeding through, aching along with the cacophony of pain. _Hold on for three floors._

“What? Tony, what the hell did they do to—“

“Do it. They have a trigger word to use against you,” Stark’s expression is angry, “they wanted to get in the Tower to get you. I have to figure out what the fuck they have in you—just—just put in the ear buds, whatever you do _don’t listen to any of them_.”

Jim blinks at him, the mask still grating on Tony’s nerves, “none of them—“

“It’s an _auto-wipe_ , Jim. It’s a fucking way to make you forget me and Steve and movie night and Nat’s god-awful popcorn, and Clint in the vents, and V’s YouTube thing, and Bruce’s herbal tea, and Wanda’s strawberries, and Sam’s stupid Uno obsession and… and—just _for fuck’s sake_ , put in the damn earbuds so I can get you _out of here_.”

Stark reaches up and takes the comm for his own ear, and Jim goes scarily still, staring at him with the stupid mask hiding half his face and expression so that Tony can’t tell what he’s thinking but if he just does this one thing, he can be mad later. Finally, Jim turns the little devices on and up full blast before fitting them in. Once Jim gives him a sharp nod, Tony breathes and moves out first, listening for anything over the sound of his blood pounding in his head.

“Avengers, Iron Man sans the Iron, we’re moving out now.”

“ _Iron Man_ …status?”

“Moving out. Didn’t I just say that? I’m pretty sure I just said that, Widow.”

The next stairway is narrower and they hit a wall with a locked door at the end. Tony holds the Glock, ready to blow the handle off when Jim just snags his elbow and pulls him back. The metal hand comes out and breaks the handle off without more than a slight creak. Tony eases the door open while the hand on his elbows stays there. He peeks around the corner, ignoring the pounding metal music ( _Down with the Sickness_ , really Jim?) and raises one Glock straight out in front, leading with the barrel. His shoulder aches with the strain, wet and pulsing, but he keeps moving, taking point with Jim side-walking to keep an eye out on their backs.

This floor is off, the doors much nicer, sturdier, like more secrets are kept here. He itches to start opening doors, make sure his program is ready to start crashing all their shit, including the security program that run the whole installation. But Jim’s hold on his elbow doesn’t let up for a second, the press of fingers to the right direct him to the turn in the hallway. 

“Iron Man, location?” Cap’s voice is low in his ear, tight. He’s in the battle head space.

“Two floors down maybe, yeah, rounding the corner. Nice carpet up here, downstairs their décor really sucks, Cap. I mean, they need some help or something. Must have ran out of funding because this shit isn’t going to show blood stains, superior Berber quality here.” He tightens his grip again when his hand starts shaking from the strain or the shoulder, or the throbbing in his side, whatever.

 “Keep your eyes open, we’re on the way.” Cap must be concerned if he’s ignoring the banter.

“No need. Up two more flights and we’re solid, right?”

“How bad are you injured?” Cap counters.

“Whaaat? Are you, gasp, concerned? How sweet.”

 A chuckle over the comm is Bird Boy and Tony’s hyper-alert senses kick up a notch, “Hey Hawkeye, I made one of the Henchpeople laugh. True story.”

 Now the asshole is laughing to himself, “holy hell, Iron Man, that’s like, a _thousand_ points right there.”

“I know, right?”

“Cut the chatter people, we’re on a rescue mission here. Iron Man, the Soldier is still with you?” And there was the faint concern.

“Yeah, Red Dawn is right behind me.”

 The hair on the back of Tony’s neck prickles and he spins to use his forearm across Jim’s chest to put them both against the wall. Glock number 2 pointing back the way they came and Glock number 1 the other direction.

“What the goddamned hell is going on with the computers. I was trying to Netflix _Orange is the New Black_ and now all I’ve got are error messages.” Someone is pissed off coming down the hall at them.

“That’s just Windows OS for you,” the other replies easily. “Just re-start, install the stupid updates, and you’ll have Season Two in no time,” another door on that end of the hall creaks open and Tony lets out the breath he’d been holding.

“Hey, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Listen.”

Fuck, they hear the music. Tony uses the arm across Jim’s chest to move him down the wall away from the two and steps gingerly in the spot, attention not wavering from the two that could know the word.

“Check it out then come back and help me with this. Man, I _hate_ Microsoft.”

“We should have asked for Macs, I know, I know.” Footsteps are getting closer, Tony tenses, ready to make his move when the hand on his elbow tightens to the point of pain. A quick glance shows Jim’s brows furrowed but Stark only give a nod in the opposite direction, telling him without words to watch their backs.

With a final tick, Tony steps out from behind the corner, gun extended. “On the ground, now.”

The henchperson just stops in his tracks, an impressive assault rifle carelessly strapped over one shoulder. “Fuck,” the guy says obviously and raises both hands in a mock surrender.

“On. The. Ground.”

“Dammit, I knew I should have stayed the hell home,” the guy says to himself as he gets down on his knees. “But no, Comcast turned my shit off and I thought I could just come here for my damn show and look. Tony fucking Stark is going to shoot me in the back of the head. Dammit. Dammit.”

Stark moves, “get a better service provider and stop working for these sons of bitches” is all he says, bringing the butt of the gun down on the guy’s skull, dragging him by one arm around the corner. He’s breathing hard now and Jim’s brows are furrowed even more in concern. The door down from them opens and Jim’s reaction is immediate, gun up so fast, Tony barely saw him move, but the wisps of red make Tony sag a little in relief as Witch and Cap come out of the stairwell.

Jim is already pulling him along, keeping him strangely close with one arm, chest-to-chest walking backwards to keep his attention focused behind them with the gun raised in his free hand. He manages it smoothly, not tripping over his feet like Stark is concentrating very hard on not doing.

The Witch’s eyes widen when she see him, “T-Iron Man, my—“

“Most of it’s not mine,” he waves away her concern while keeping the Glock pointed at the ceiling. “Well, I’d say 50%, no closer to 65%. Maybe 68%?”

Cap is not looking happy giving Tony a once-over, the muscle in his jaw clenches.

Tony just grins up at him, “I promise, I’ll be good on comms. Let’s get the fuck out of here before they realize I planted a virus in their systems and it all goes to shit. We need to hurry.”

With a jerk, Cap make a single hand motion to the Soldier and Tony’s arm is relinquished long enough for Cap to take over and Jim to cover their backs.  Witch paces right beside him as Cap pretty much just drags him along.

“Scarlet Witch?” He barks as they hit the final staircase.

Her scary redness surrounds him.

“Minds upstairs, many of them, Captain.”

“Get ready to take them out of the game.”

“Understood. They will _move_ for us.” She promises and the red fogs shoots past them up the stairs. Tony sees some of it it slide through the cracks of the door they pass up to keep moving forward. He glances over his shoulder at Jim’s back, gun raised and looking over the banister. He takes the steps backwards easily.

Cap opens the final door, pausing as Tony bends over, just a second to catch his breath, rest his knee.

“Tony…”

“No, I’m fine. We get out.” He straightens with effort, wiping the sweat off his brow with his ruined jacket sleeve. Cap’s jaw twitches again but he nods once and they’re through the door, moving quickly down the hall. Red smoke curls around doorframes and Hydra agents are just sitting on either ends of the hallway, looking stoned out of their minds.

“Remind me never to play poker with you, totally unfair advantage,” he gasps at her as they just walk right on by.  One of the agents wave at them dreamily.

A half-smile while she’s concentrating lets him know she hears, “you count cards anyway, Iron Man. I need all the advantage I can get.”

“Rude. I so do not.”

“Do so. You simply can’t help yourself. It’s the way your mind works.” Her eyes twinkle at him fondly and she’s back in the game, more of her power flowing out to make her hair blow in a non-existent wind.

“We’re hitting the roof. Hawkeye get the bird ready to take off. Doc, get supplies ready. Widow, cover our six once we’re out.”

The real wind hitting his face is a blessing after three days in that hellhole, and Tony stumbles, dropping one of the Glocks as his hand goes numb. Cap just slings an arm around his waist to get him standing, mostly picking him up to get him up the walkway of the Quinjet, nodding to Widow on his way.

Clint’s in the pilot seat, looking back at them. His face breaks out into a grin when he sees Stark somewhat in one piece.

Once Cap lets him go, Tony moves to the co-pilot seat, bracing a hand on it and reaching for the head set.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y?” he rasps, tapping at the built-in touch pad. “We need a fast hack and execute. **Now.** ”  He enters the direct network line to the installation, working fast and almost dead on his feet. His virus code pops up on screen and F.R.I.D.A.Y takes over to enter the network extensions. The Quinjet’s engines fire, rumbling beneath his feet.

“Tony. Tony.” Jim’s got his arm again, ear buds gone. “Tony, let Bruce look at you. Christ, you’re beat to shit.”

“Ten more seconds,” he argues harshly, “we’re almost ready to execute. F.R.I.D.A.Y, make sure all network extensions are connected and infiltrated. I want _everything_ , take them the fuck down.”

“On it, Boss,” the computer replies over the loud speakers. The walkway closes up.

“Full program execute in—“

“Tony, you’re bleeding out, they took a hunk out of you,”  Great, now Cap is there too.

“—seconds.”

Tony’s eyes don’t leave the screen, tapping furiously to enter the final _coup de gras_. A symbol pops up on the screen, a virtual image of the Iron Man mask, glowing eyes and its hand comes up with the repulsor aimed at the viewer. The hand lights up and blasts, the screen whites out.

“Virus program initiated.”

“Block any back-door access attempts, intact all encryptions,” he’s saying even while bracing both hands on the control panel, head hanging down.

“Done.”

“Access all sub-routes, all locked connections, detect all ghost drives.”

“Coding completed.”

His knees get wobbly for a second, and Tony forces them to lock, to keep him standing. “Trace and transfer all user files to main SSARAS servers.” A hand is on his arm now, but they can’t just _stop_.

“Tony!” The hands are pulling him but sheer stubbornness makes him stay right where he is while the holograms flash in front of his face, the virus twisting and turning, adapting the way it should so those sons of bitches weren’t going to shut it down, weren’t going to _break_ it.  The second they tried, the coding would adapt and multiply. It would grow a new head.

“On my mark.” His eyes blur around the edges. A leg is nudging his, Steve there winding an arm around his waist to steady him since…oh, apparently he was listing to the side.  The numbers on the screen finally line up, giving him the green light.

“Execute.”

The touch pad configures, lights up with more numbers, codes, images as the jet raises, and throws his balance completely the hell off and into Steve’s side. From the pilot’s chair, Clint looks relatively constipated, “Jesus, BRUCE, come get this idiot before he—“

Too late. Tony’s knees have finally had it and buckle on him, slipping out of Cap’s light hold, his palms catch him before he faceplants. The Glocks still at his waist bite into his aching sides. He vaguely hears, “Implementing worm; beginning infiltration.”

“Goddammit, Tony,” Jim’s voice sounds like it’s far down a tunnel and he should really be pissed off that there’s an arm under his knees and he’s being carried like some terrible rom-com actor…

“Virus with a worm, black them out, two will re-code themselves,” he’s saying into Cap’s broad shoulder, trying to pick Jim out with his greying vision. “Gotta get you to the Tower, break their tech.  The fuck…didn’t catch it before.”

“Medical,” Steve says firmly, hands gentle on Tony’s upper body as he and Jim lay the engineer down on the emergency cot bolted to the Quinjet’s hull. Well, it had been a while since he was here; forgot how comfortable it is, better than being chained standing for days.

“More important than medical,” Tony fires back, half-aware but looking up at the two super-soldiers filling his vision. He already feels better just looking at them, whole and alive. Jim pulls the Glocks out of his waistband.

“Not at the moment,” he counters, brows up at the spare weapons. “Geeze, Stark, you’re like a one-man assault team. Who needs a suit, right?”

“My fuck-up,” Tony slurs, “they won’t underestimate—“

Now the funny ha-ha fades and Jim's eyes darken in concern, "Tony."

Bruce prods at the shoulder and – _when did Bruce_ —Tony clenches his teeth in pain. When he blinks, their faces are swimming and his vision is fuzzy around the edges. Jim still has the stupid mask on, still looking like he’s Hydra’s golden boy and the fucking word they’ve got against him pisses Tony off all over again. His arm moves, he doesn’t know it until Jim is looking down at the hand tight on his wrist and back at Tony’s face.

 “N-Not while I’m still breathing,” is the last thing he manages before he’s out.

 Bruce is shakily sewing up the hunk of skin taken out of Tony’s left shoulder with gloved hands. “I’m not going to mention it, but I’m not this kind of doctor.”

 “Didn’t you take care of people in Honduras?” Widow mentions casually, standing above him.

“Well, okay. I _have been_ that kind of doctor, but this is Tony we’re talking about here.”

“He’ll bleed out the same as they would.”

The doctor hesitated, hand in mid-stitch. “Point.”

Bruce glances over his shoulder at Cap and the Soldier, “what the hell was he talking about? What tech is he trying to break now? Wasn’t Time’s Square enough for a few months?”

Jim pulls the mask down to hang around his neck, crossing his arms to unconsciously fit his elbows in his palms as a form of comfort (since he was a little fucked in the head after seeing a beat-to-shit Tony protect him so fiercely). They’d gotten the destroyed suit jacket and shirt off him for Bruce to start in with the treatment, but looking down at that battered face, knowing there had to be a mountain of bruises under that tank top, the blood crusted on his knuckles up to the forearms, and the two Glocks he’d taken off the mechanic, Jim felt a swell of pride that the kidnapped billionaire had busted _ass_ to get out of there just to save _him_ from some code word.  Impressing him was hard to do since he was a brainwashed assassin for seventy years but hey, stranger things happened, right? Take other things into account, like how _off the fucking wall insane_ he went after hearing Tony had been taken outside of a meeting for SI, how afraid he’d been that he might never get the chance to…

“Not entirely sure. He made me wear ear buds while we were in there. Something about those mooks knew a word that would auto-wipe me if I heard it.” He gives an easy one shouldered shrug, reining in the fear those words brought up.

Cap gives a brisk nod, eyes for Bruce dousing the injury with antiseptic before getting out gauze. “He said the same thing to me, gave me a word that’s supposed to be the trigger, but I don’t know what tech he was talking about except he had some kind of computer virus to use against them. Other than that he didn’t elaborate.” Cap shrugs. “We’ll worry about it once Medical clears him for any other injuries,” Cap eyes the Soldier, “then we’ll figure out what else they’ve got to use against you.”

Jim gives a brisk nod, “I’ll call the Professor again once we know more, but first, I want to know _everything_ they told Tony.” The voice, however, is very much from the Winter Soldier. On the down-low, Steve uncrosses his arms, hand dangling right by Jim’s so the soldier can grab it and hold on, squeezing while they worried about the extraordinary man on the cot.

 ***

A week later, he finishes the last episode and switches to television to catch the 10 o’clock news while stuffing another handful of popcorn in his mouth. When the screen comes up, he immediately spits it all out. The headlining banners scrolling across the screen predict approximately 137 casualties of the horrendous explosion of a gear factory nearly Yozgat, Turkey. Terrible tragedy the foreign news anchor reports to her BBC counterpart, and close-up of the still-smoking rubble, well, _ash_ flashes across the screen.

He snags the remote and pauses, rewinds just a little. Right outside the initial rubble, in the background, is a single set of boot prints leading away from the ‘factory’ and into the dense woods.

Heart pounding, he sits back, remnants of his popcorn all over his shirt and the carpet. Eyes blown wide and hand shaking, he switches back to Netflix and cycles around in the _New Arrivals_. “Man, I am so glad I quit that job.”

**

About the same time, Tony Stark is in his workshop, tinkering with light things so he doesn’t lose his ever-loving _mind_ with just twiddling his thumbs and making DUM-E chase the yellow ball Steve got for him.  He has no _idea_ why everyone is just freaking out about a little kidnapping, seriously? This one didn’t even touch his top _twenty_ of kidnappings in the last two decades, the décor wasn’t even as bad as some, no matter how much he bitched. 

So, he’s hiding down in the lab (everything is on lockdown, thank-you very much) to escape the mother-hen looks and relieved stares, the fricking _hovering_ , and two super soldiers all over him like he’s about to get snatched again in the next twenty seconds or something. Just dealing with everyone when they’re on hyper-edge is so tiring, like passing hour 71 tiring, saps the strength out of his whole body. So, if he takes himself out of their sights for a few hours, maybe they can all just calm down and go back to the semblance of normalcy (or as normal as it can be for a bunch of world-saving heroes).

He sighs at himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose to try and keep back a headache. He should have brought coffee down and totally didn’t think about it at the time. Regretful sigh.

 “Sir.” J.J. finally breaks into his train of thought.

“They found me.” He guesses.

“You are not that difficult to locate, Sir. However, you are correct. Captain Rogers and Sergeants Barnes are outside the doors and refuse to leave until you allow them admittance.”

 _Fuck_ . He needs, he just _needs_ some time to calm down. That whole thing with Jim that went down was too close for him; hell, the guy probably already guessed what was going on and what Tony was hiding (even though he tried to be careful, so very careful that nothing got through his defenses, that he didn’t give either of them any reason to suspect). He apparently wasn’t getting any time or space.

“Additionally, the scans you requested have been completed. The results are ready.”

“Have you sent them to Bruce?”

“Of course, Sir.” The AI seemed a bit miffed, “the Captain and Sergeant are threatening to start singing show tunes unless you open the doors, Sir.  The Sergeant advises his repertoire is quite extensive.””

Tony blinks and gives a little to laugh with his head in his hand. Those two are going to be the death of him and they don’t even know it. “All right, all right, J.J. Let them in.”

The holograms he’s looking at are still active (like he really had a chance to get things done) when the two walk in side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder; the sight warms something in him, seeing Jim confident and together, seeing Steve so easy with the love of his life back to share the good fight with him. The stray thought crosses his mind, watching them stride toward him in their civvies, at how it would look if he was there walking between them, with them…

Tony shuts his expression down to pleasant, neutral lines and hits his mental Task Manager to close down that process before it can come to any kind of fruition.

“Look you two,” he starts sternly with a finger pointing for emphasis; both visibly pause, “I told you Bingo nights are _Wednesday_ and shuffle board is _upstairs_ on Barton’s floor--”

“Ha, ha, asshole,” Jim snarks back as he and Steve finally come to his workbench, “you didn’t even stock any Ovaltine for Bingo night.”

Tony bites his lip and still grins.

Steve regards him coolly, arms crossed over his massive chest, “we’ve already taken our meds and watched that gosh darned Ed Sullivan re-rerun _on the communal floor_ , Stark. Where you should be taking it easy and having dinner.”

Seriously, these two are going to be the death of him. Sass always beckons sass.

“Easy? I’ve been taking it easy, Steve. Seriously, can’t take much easier or I’d be in a coma.” He straightens, “work is still out there and someone’s got to do it. No big deal.”

Jim rolls his eyes dramatically, “what can’t wait until your shoulder heals? Seriously? Stuff for SI? You’ve got a Research and Development department full of egg-heads, Tony.”

“Sir—“ J.J. buts in, “the scan you’ve requested has revealed Hydra technology signatures.”

It takes everything he has not to snap back at the AI who is _on purpose_ saying something that will catch the two soldier’s attention immediately. Damn it. He wanted to get all his facts straight before talking to Jim about what happened in that base…

“What?” Steve’s eyes dart to the ceiling before coming back to the engineer, “Stark…”

Jim’s hand on Steve’s forearm quiets the blonde, draws his eyes.

The engineer sighs angrily, “I was scanning your last test results for whatever the fuck Hydra has in you,” the admission is biting, “I wanted _evidence_ before I brought it up at the next team meeting or whatever.”

But Jim’s _eyes_ , that gaze on him, fond and concerned all wrapped up into a ball of emotions he shouldn’t be having. When he speaks, his voice is that lower timbre, “hey, fella. Serious now, that stuff can definitely wait until you’re all healed up to be an asshole again.”

Pointing a finger, Tony snarls, “so rude. I’m _always_ an asshole, it’s an inherent trait, not a learned one. And, no. You know what, no, it _can’t just wait_. If you’re going back out the Avengers while I’m here, then you need for their shit to be out of your blood or whatever.”

Jim sighs but his smile is still that confusing emotion Tony is totally disregarding; with a shake of his head, he leaves Steve’s side to put a stool down beside Tony and plop himself down. “All right genius, let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

Tony blink at him as Cap throws his hands in the air, gaze at the ceiling as if he’s asking the powers that be what he’s done to deserve these two; however, true to form, Steve sits himself on Tony’s other side and watches the engineer bring up the results of the scan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need, NEED feedback on this because this chapter was my life for weeks. As always, thanks for reading!


	30. Sunday Memorial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The amalagation of what Tony Stark is...and the super soldiers need to figure some things out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much good vibes and comments from the last chapter that I put this one up too. You all FEED THE MUSE, I swear!

With a wave over his shoulder, Stark puts on his shades as the elevator doors soundlessly slide closed. The others watch him disappear, the vestiges of lunch still on the table.

The mad engineer is impulsive as hell, his next move always a surprise (as the team has come to appreciate and dread in the same instance) but his Sundays are alarmingly scheduled. In the beginning, when they all first moved into the Tower, no one noticed Stark leaving at exactly 11:00am and returning right after 7:00pm. Not until they became closer—teammates to friends to confidants—did they all start to put the pieces together. Months of bonding, sharing meals, telling old stories, nightmares, and commiserations brought them to the realization that _the_ Tony Stark was a man of masks. None of which told anyone why he masked his large heart with his public personas or didn't tell anyone where he was going.

Months after Jim integrated with them did he finally speak up on the matter.

“So, does anyone know where he goes every Sunday?”

The table quiets as they all exchange looks about the elephant in the room.

After a sip of his tea, Bruce quietly asserts, “I always assumed he went down to SI’s floors to catch up on paperwork so Pepper won’t kill him.” Which is a fairly good assumption.

Clint swallows a bite before, “doesn’t he go down to R&D with new projects? That’s what I always thought.”

“I believed our Iron Brother may need his own time perhaps.” Thor looks at his pop tart wrapper, thoughtful. “He is a man obsessed, working tirelessly for us, for his company, for himself. It would not be unreasonable of him to have need of a different space.”

The table, as one, turn eyes to Natasha (who is delightfully crunching on the last piece of bacon pilfered from Steve’s plate when he wasn’t looking), but she merely shrugs under their gazes. “I was more Pepper’s PA than Tony’s, and even then, I knew almost nothing about him. Not a third of what I know now.”

Eyes then flex to Rhoades, who, for once, is not crashing in DC, but in his own set of rooms within the Tower. Since the return of Iron Man, War Machine had taken a more permanent position back with the armed forces, always on the Avenger’s roster as a back-up and point-of-contact when things happened to get dicey, but he was no longer a fixture in air support. The man, however, always came back for his down-time, still making sure his best friend was staying on an even keel (apparently, the last ‘what-the-hell-happened-to-Tony’ fiasco made him more paranoid than normal).

Rhoades gives a calm glance around the table and goes meticulously back to his breakfast.

“If it’s a private matter, Colonel,” Steve starts, “we won’t nose around it.”

But, Rhoadey holds up the hand not shoving a fork-full of cheesy eggs in his mouth, “Steve, we’ve gone over this. Rhoades or James is fine when we’re out of uniform. Really, I am not your commanding officer.” He sighs a little and finishes his bite before sitting back a little. “Tony doesn’t advertise it, but it’s not a secret either, I suppose. Not really, anyway, and he trusts all of you, so…” James sighs again, crossing his arms over his chest, one hand rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“After…after he got back from Afghanistan, he started visiting some of the families of the troops that were casualties from his detail. The ones that were killed when the Ten Rings attacked him.” Rhoades breathes hard, like the memory of those missing months of fear and worry caught up to him once again, “he started going every Sunday, always sure he made the rounds. He started out just going to apologize at first, see if there was anything he could do for them, give them his condolences, you know? Me or Pep or Happy went with him the first few times because we knew what could happen to him. He didn’t even really _think_ about it, how some of those people might want to take him out since _he was the reason_ or might hate him enough to seriously try to hurt him or any number of things. I mean, billionaire comes to your door with a hand shake and what do you do?”

The team, silent at this revelation, feel a swell of emotion directed at the so-called playboy for personally handling so delicate a thing himself.

“Did—Did any of ‘em try to do anything?” Bucky has the balls to ask, grey eyes wide and metal hand tightening into a fist on the table. “Any of ‘em hurt him, Rhoades?”

Holding up a hand, James shook his head, “we were, _are_ , very lucky that no, none of the families ever attempted lawsuits or violence or anything of that matter. But, you have to _understand_. He’d just come back from three months of torture, near death, and new hardware in his chest to keep from _dying_. He was a completely different Tony Stark than the one that left. The guy that came back…he took control of SI from Obie like an obsession. Weapons production stopped _that day_. The military went nuts, Obie went nuts at all the violated contracts, but Tony didn’t back down to anyone. He’d always given in to Obie, no matter what, but this time…I think it threw the old guy to see Tony Stark with an iron back bone and tell him just exactly how SI was no longer in the business of mass producing weapons, no matter how good the money was. Hell, even the board didn’t argue with him, and well, you guys _know_ how SI’s board can be, I mean, Pepper handles them like a pro, but even she has to work at it.” James is looking out the window, no longer at the team.

“I was there when he told Obie, looking half-crazy after I pulled him out of that desert. It was before he made the first _real_ Iron Man suit and just something about Obie’s face set me off. I should have known it was that son of a bitch dealing on the side.” James shakes his head ruefully. “The guy got sloppy though, desperate and sloppy.”

Raising a hand, he seems to wipe away that line of thought, “the families, right. So there were ten soldiers that…didn’t make it out of the attack, and well, none of the families were very receptive to Tony coming around even with the best of intentions. This was husbands, sons, brothers—gone because of Tony, and I think s few just slammed the door in his face or threatened to have him arrested if he came around when he wasn’t wanted, his apology wasn’t wanted. Heh, but all of you know him and Tony’s a persistent bastard if nothing else, so he just kept coming around until, well, the Jimenez family actually _did_ have him arrested once, or maybe twice? Don’t remember, but he still kept showing up at their door with donuts usually, and the family finally respected him for his insane ability to be a total pain in the ass.”

The table shares a smile for the engineer and his antics, his _heart_.

“It’s been, well damn, almost four years now? Three? He still goes, has the jet ready to take him to whoever’s turn or sometimes he just takes the armor because it’s faster. For the guys that didn’t have anyone, he still visits them, wherever they were laid to rest. He…one time, I found him by Private Amelio’s stone in the middle of a goddamned blizzard, but Tony—he was just sitting there in the snow, talking to the guy like he’d talk to _anyone_ , babbling on about the suit or the newest invention or what Pepper had him doing. He almost had hypothermia…” James’ expression clouds for a few important moments, like he realizes he’s talking too much about his best friend. He clears his throat uncomfortable, picks up his abandoned fork and focuses on his plate again. “So, yeah. That’s what Tony does on Sundays.”

**

That evening, Steve is surprisingly not in the gym completing his normal workout routine, but stands on the launch platform for Iron Man, taking in the city at night. The wind ruffles his hair and clothing while the city lights reflect off his cobalt blue eyes, giving his very _Captain America_ stance a flicker of shadows.

The footsteps coming across the platform aren’t the whispers of movements from the last few months; it’s a good indication that his best friend, his lover, his fella was finally healing enough to let himself be heard. Steve grins a little to himself as the steps, slightly heavier on the left foot, come directly behind him. He doesn’t turn around, but those arms slide around his waist, tenderly, familiar. The chest fit into his back like puzzle pieces sliding together, so perfect, more than when Steve was a tiny fella or when Bucky was the smaller of the two. Now, Bucky is just the right height for his forehead to lie in the niche at the base of Steve’s neck, breathing in the space between his shoulder blades.

“You okay, babe?” The gently spoken words were torn away by the wind, but Steve’s advanced hearing catches them nonetheless.

The shift in the shadows is his nod.

“You waiting up for him?”

Another nod.

“You wanna I leave you alone?” No hurt in that statement, just general inquiry.

Finally, Steve’s head turns so his profile is slightly shadowed, “of course not, Buck. I’ll always want you with me.”

Jim already knew; just like pulling teeth, the punk could bark orders, out-think any army, but the fool couldn’t say the easy shit, like ‘I hurt, I’m scared, I _need_ …’

“Then tell me about it while we’re waiting for him.”

 Steve’s gaze turns back over the city, “I don’t—“

 "Yeah. Yeah, you do. Out with it. You lie like a mook,” but his tone is gentle, fond, taking the sting from his words. Jim tightens his hold to say ‘I’m here for you’ without having to say a thing. He, oddly enough, is the thing that grounds Steve when he gets like this; it’s a change from the little guy that didn’t give anything up, never wanted anyone to see any more weaknesses. It’s such a strange dynamic from their past relationship, an incredible adaptation to who they had both become. If nothing, it had proven to Jim that he was meant to be here, even if he was still a danger to Steve and the team, he was still _supposed_ to be in this Tower with them, working side-by-side to rectify his mistakes.

The massive chest lifts in a sigh, and Jim can almost feel the strong surety of the Captain fade away as the shoulders under him cave in just slightly, head lowering. These small tells are all he needs to know, happy he can have them now when he never got them before. Without hesitation, his hands gently attempting to massage out the stress, the tenseness. The tips of his fingers ease to rub the jut of Steve’s hipbones in soothing circles; it works now just like it did back then, Steve sighs softly, shifts his hip to press into the touch.

“I—I don’t know,” he mumbles, arms uncrossing so one hand can rub his temple, “he just—he makes it so easy and so hard at the same time. If I had any sense at all, I’d just take you and move back to Brooklyn, get the heck out of here—“ _before I do something stupid, something you may not forgive me for…_

 Jim listens intently, picking up on the nuances he couldn’t have at one time without the enhanced senses. “Hm. That’s one plan. Don’t really seem like your style, though. But, explain to me what you mean about Stark.”

 “It…I don’t suspect it’s any different than when we first—“talked”—a few months ago.”

  _When I stopped you from going to him_ , Jim reads, but that’s where Steve is still an idiot. Sure, he and Tony had spent time in the workshop, getting the arm together, getting his head together, making a link to the future, getting a bead on what he would need to _function_ aside from being the Soldier. Tony gave him a future, gave him hope he could overcome and move forward. It’s what the man did best, inspire. Steve gave him the grounding he always needed, the steady assurance of his presence; he _couldn’t_ keep going without Steve, but Tony…Tony gave him a place in to figure out what he wanted to be, that damn engineer just ignored the danger and cleared out a big spot in his life for Jim to slide right in.

“I know what my feelings are, babe. You know, too. Your turn to share.” The soldier turns his lover with gentle hands, tilting his head to look up, not letting the Captain persona get in the way of Steve. “It’s always been you first, and it always will be. I don’t need to tell ya that again. You already know.”

Those big hands come up, hold Jim’s face while the cobalt blue eyes soften, taking in all the details of his expression for a few intense moments, and then Steve is leaning down, kissing him gently, putting his love into his action, just like always. Jim’s eyes slide closed at the tentative touch, pressing closer.

The two stay like that, taking their time.

“I shouldn’t feel this way,” Steve admits with his eyes closed, forehead against Bucky’s, “it’s…wrong. I’ve got you. When I thought I’d never…and just there you _are_. My life came back to me in this crazy time, and I should be grateful because I’m the luckiest son of a bitch alive.”

Jim guffaws gently with the wind whipping around him, nuzzling his nose against Steve’s, “language there, fella.” He says with a grin, not opening his eyes.

Steve’s breath puff out when he laughs, low. “Not you too. C’mon and cut me a break.”

“I already give you too much rope, soldier.” Jim’s flesh hand on the back of his neck is soothing warm, giving Steve strength of a different sort that he needs.

“Before you came back…I wanted him even then,” the low admission pressing between them. “Everything about him drew me in when I saw the real guy. When I saw past that mask and realized I was just as bad as everyone else, putting this expectation on him to be a selfish bastard out for glory. He just…he wiggled around until he had this place in my heart that made it easier to move forward to the next thing. That I could do it as long as I had Tony there with me.”

“I know the feeling,” Jim fills in after Steve is quiet for too long, “I get it, Stevie. I do.”

The blonde just makes a harsh noise, hands cupping his fella’s neck in those big palms, “I love you,” he says starkly, desperately.

“An’ I love you,” Jim parrots back just as fiercely, their gazes intense on one another, “and _nothing_ is going to change that. But, Steve, it don’t mean we can’t have enough for him too. You get me? What we got for Tony _doesn’t change what we got for one another._ That stays solid, that stays concrete. It just gets opened more to include that idiot along with us.”

“It feels like I’m doing you _wrong_ , Buck.”

“Yeah, I thought that too for a while.”

“I can’t live without you,” and there’s a thread of fear in the normally decisive tone, one that makes Jim reach out and wrap his arms around Steve, keeping him pressed tight.

“I’ll never be able to live without you either,” he admits quietly right by Steve’s ear. “If anything happened to you, this time, I’ll put a gun in my mouth and eat one. I swear that’s what’ll happen because this, _me_ , I’ll never be me without Steve Rogers.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? Because it’s true? Don’t be stupid, you know I’m not going to lie to you.”

Another sad chuckle, “you jerk.”

“Sticks n stones, babe. Sticks n stones.” He sighs a little, “I think we need to talk to someone…specific before we make any decisions. Let me set something up, then we’ll talk more about what we want to do.” 

“Buck…”

“You trust me?”

“With everything I am.”

“Then let me make a call.”

“…okay. Okay.”

The air around them swirls and a **_boom_ ** resounds, the echo crackling across the skyscrapers. The Iron Man armor gleams in the lights, repulsors lighting the way as the modified voice shouts over the wind.

“Steve! Jim!”

A hurried landing, the man in the armor barely on the launch pad before he’s running to them, “What is it? What’s wrong?!” The face plate flips up first, taking the rest of the helmet from the Mark XXII to fold back completely. Those dark eyes take them in, scrutinize every detail; when he sees the faint smiles, Tony relaxes.

Without even thinking, he’s got both soldiers by the arm with a firm but easy grip, “seriously, what are you two doing out here? I don’t care if you put the _super_ in super-soldiers because pneumonia is still a _bitch_ , okay? It's gross and terrible.”

Steve just shakes his head, cheeks and nose still pink from the cold. “Nothin’s wrong, Stark. We were just waiting on you to get back.”

Jim likewise gives the engineer an exasperated finger in the face, “’cause some idiot just likes to run a heap of scrap metal thousands of feet in the air on no sleep and just caffeine.”

And Tony being Tony just draws a hand back to lay flat over the arc reactor in his chest, “are you referring to  _moi_ ? Why, James Barnes I’m shocked _and_ insulted! My suits are a thing of _beauty_. Scrap metal? The outrage!”

But the asshole is grinning with that genuine twinkle in his eye when he looks at the two soldiers, something soft and fond and warm on his face that makes both Steve and Bucky just that much weaker for him.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, we saved you Chinese. If you’re really nice I might even be persuaded to get a jacket on and let you take me flying tonight.”

The two automatically fall on either side of the armor (the launch pad disabled by command when Tony saw the two waiting on him), bracing him like bookends, both looking at him fondly when Tony rubs his hands together with an evil laugh.

“Yes! Yeeesssss, _finally._  I will so totally take you flying, oh-em-gee, I’m so stoked for both Chinese food _and_ flying. We’ll call this hashtag bffs for _life_.”

 “Still don’t get that reference, Tony. Only because I honestly don’t want to.”

“Aw, Cap! Party pooper.”

 Laughing easily, neither has the heart to ask how his Sunday memorial went, but some day… _some day_ , they’d be able to ask him if they could come too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will give a gold star to anyone that can guess who Bucky wants he and Steve to talk to. Go on, guess :)
> 
> Another note: I honestly did not mean for this to take so long, and if I'm killing anyone, I am very, very sorry. The next two will be up soon and it's coming. The big thing everyone is waiting for in a fic like this. Believe me, we are so, so close.


	31. The Talk II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before anything else can happen, they need to have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the winner is...

The programming in the back of his skull was putting out some very unimpressive statics about Virginia “Pepper” Potts. 5’11 without her impressive shoes, 175 ibs (easy to overtake), willowy build without muscles mass, lack of Extremis in her body, so no trouble there. All in all, other than being a business shark, she was a normal, run-of-the-mill dame.

So why was his heart pounding? Under the edge of her desk, his hand gripped Steve’s just a little tighter. Damn, this was his idea in the first place, wasn’t it? It seemed so good at the time.

Pepper finally glances up at the two super soldiers across her desk, sitting in visitors’ chairs that looked ridiculously dainty in comparison to their bulk and gives the two of them a winning smile as she puts the phone back in the cradle.

“Sorry about that guys,” she has a genuine affection for the two since they seem to generally care about Tony’s health and well-being as teammate. It makes her heart warm to know the Avengers seem to have his back. “Can I get you something to drink? Something to eat?”

“Uh, no, Ms. Potts, we’re fine, thanks.” Steve, always the shy one around a smart cookie like her, gives her a small grin. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time, we know you’re very busy.”

Pepper gives him a patient look, “Steve, I _promise_ , my virtue will not be offended in the slightest if you call me Pepper _or_ Virginia, Jenny, I answer to them all, and, please, don’t worry at all. I always have time for my two favorite Avengers. Well,” she gestures to the large picture of Iron Man giving a peace sign on her left wall, “second favorite. Sorry, boys.”

Jim gives a laugh, “it’s all that hardware, ain’t it? Makes a lady like you swoon.”

“Slowly working up to favorite, Jim.” She leans forward on her elbows, “now, what can I do for you?  Jim, you sounded a somewhat strange on the phone when you asked to meet.”

The two exchange a meaningful glance that is so obviously a “couples” look that Pepper’s eyebrow arches for a second before they both turn back to her with intent expressions.

 “We’re here…to talk about Tony,” Steve hedges. “Not that anything’s wrong or that we’ve noticed anything, but we’d—well…” Steve’s cheeks are starting to get pink.

“We’d like your advice,” Jim continues, “on dealing with him.”

Pepper blinks, “if he’s holding up in the workshop, hour 52 and over, use F.R.I.D.A.Y’s override because he won’t come out for anything short of—“

“Take-out from that Chinese place on 73rd gets him out,” Jim waves away.

“Giving him the pick on Movie Night does it from hour 35-50,” Steve interjects.

“Fresh coffee does it for anything less than that or from hour 60 to 75. Never let him go longer than that and only on _one_ occasion. It ain’t good for him to be that long without sleep.” Jim continues.

If she weren’t the CEO of Stark Industries, her jaw would have dropped. “Well, seems like you’ve got that handled.”

“We know how to take care of him, recognize the signs when he’s hurting and doesn’t want to do to medical, we’re there when we can be when the nightmares get bad,” Steve assures her.

“We make sure there’s an extra arc reactor in the safe before he goes on any missions and carries the suitcase suit as an extra for, well, emergencies.” Jim explains carefully, remembering Steve’s story of the reactor going dark in Tony’s shaking hand.

“We get his flavored coffee and those darn desserts,” Steve grouses at Bucky good naturedly.

“We eat ‘em too, Stevie.”

“Yeah, yeah we do.”

“Oh my god,” Pepper interjects in this happy little couples thing, and looks between the two super soldiers with wide eyes. “Oh. My. God. You’re here to ask me if you can _date Tony Stark_. Oh my god, I’m right aren’t I?”

The two blanch a little. Her eyes get _bigger_.

“Not exactly,” Jim hurries, “we just want to make sure you and him, well, that if we _might_ happen to be kind of, shall we say, _interested_ in Mr. Stark that you wouldn’t get hurt in the process. You feel me? Or, that you wouldn’t come after us with some tech if we didn’t talk to you beforehand.”

“And maybe,” Steve hesitates, “you could tell us whether we’d be barking up the wrong tree if you know what I mean.”

Pepper sits back, still a little stunned. She opens her mouth for a second just to close it again and finally holds up a finger, picking up her phone. “Hi, Janice? Could you hold my calls? Yes, I’m in a very important meeting and I don’t want to be disturbed for anything less than the apocalypse. Thanks, you’re a dear.”

She immediately opens the lower drawer of her desk and takes out a short if not very nice bottle of clear liquid and a tumbler but gives the bottle a moment of consideration before just taking the cap off and slugging down a few gulps. The bottle goes back in the drawer before she faces them again, now serious and somewhat ready for this conversation.

“First off, I _love_ Tony. I love him like I love to breathe, as in it’s an all-encompassing thing. That’s how it works with him, you either love him for all his insanity, self-sacrificing, self-recriminating, and emotional baggage or you hate him. There’s very little grey area with him. I think you figured that out with Ultron, Steve.”

The Captain gives a short nod and sighs.

“But, Tony can’t be _himself_ with me. It’s the reason I called it off, as painful as it was and is. I stand by the decision, and…I’ve moved on a bit with Happy Hogan. I’m satisfied, so I wouldn’t be _hurt_ per say if you two decided Tony would be an addition to your relationship,” her voice is oddly gentle even as she sighs.

“However, I do need you both to understand, completely and unequivocally.  If you hurt him, in any way, regardless of the fact that you are both “super soldiers,” there would be nowhere on or off this planet you could hide from me. I would find you, and with all the technology and capabilities I have at my disposal, I would make the next greatest mystery of the twenty-first century be ‘What Ever Happened to Captain American and the Winter Soldier?’ No one would find you, either of you. And, I wouldn’t make it fast, either. I’ve never had time with Obie, but I would certainly make sure I had the time for you two.”  And her eyes are so completely scary that even Steve blinks a little (and Steve is pretty damn near fearless).

Jim’s heart is hammering in his chest at the shovel talk. This is why his instinct wins out over the programming. He hears Steve swallow hard beside him.

“He’s—he’s got a contingency plan,” Jim hears himself say, “for if the Soldier, if I try to…hurt him or hurt anyone else. He’s got the means to subdue me. We tested it. I expect you to use it.”

That’s apparently what Pepper Potts wants to hear. “Good to know. Now that we’ve got that out of the way.” She waves a hand, business-as-usual. “Tony…his reputation is mainly a show, for the press. I should know, I helped him cultivate it over the last decade before he was kidnapped in Afghanistan.  The playboy thing? It’s a thing, not the real Tony.” She gives a careless shrug, “I helped him set up the media cameras to see him leave with a new person that he usually made sure was drunk enough to just pass out and forget he was never even there all night. I was there to see them to the door the next day after he was in the workshop all night, so the media had something to focus on.”

“But why? Why would he want that?” Steve asks, a little disturbed at the need for such a cover.

“Because he didn’t want anyone to know that the large majority of SI’s product line is mainly from him,” she sighs and looks a little upset, her brow crinkling with her frown. “Tony created a three-way modified circuit board when he was _four_. It revolutionized the way computers worked. He invented the first V-8 engine when he was _six_.” She gives a general wave to the mounted issues of _Popular Mechanics, Engineering News, Technology Review_ (with MIT’s logo on the top), and others that have progressive front covers of a young Tony growing into maturity. The covers stop when Tony is in his mid-teens, both Steve and Jim notice.

“We know he’s a genius, Pepper, but that’s not why--.”

“Not the point,” she interrupts smoothly, “he started the playboy image to stop the media from knowing _he_ is, in fact, the creative genius behind Stark Industries. R &D fabricates and tweaks his designs, but no one there knows the vast majority are directly from him.  All of his schematics have the SI patent, not his own name on them.”

“He doesn’t take credit for all his inventions?” Now Steve’s brows are furrowed. “But—“

“Everything he makes comes from SI. The only times I’ve heard him talk about his inventions, as in _his_ , are for Iron Man, the Arc Reactor, and things he creates for the Avengers. On the business side, he leaves most of the credit to R&D.”

“He makes the company look better all around,” Jim looks like the epiphany is painful.

“Correct. It’s…an old argument between us,” she admits. “He once told me it started when he was at MIT and realized his father had been using his designs to keep the company going, and later…after Obie was ‘relieved’ of his position, I found a box that was Howard Stark’s…In it were all over Tony’s old designs, I mean, things in _crayon_ for goodness’ sake. Those designs later showed up with Howard’s signature on the patent.”

 “Y-You mean he _stole_ his kid’s ideas?” Jim is suddenly furious, “he did that to Tony?!”

Pepper just smiles sadly, “who knows why he did it. Maybe to keep the company moving in the direction he wanted it to go, he needed to, or to make sure there would _be_ a company for Tony to take over someday. He’s—he’s never told me the why behind it but just admitted to it all when I brought him the box of his own inventions. All I really know is that he creates the mass of SI tech and doesn’t want anyone to know it’s really all him. So, he gives the media other things to focus on. The ‘playboy’ part of it was a big piece of that.”

The two soldiers sit back a little and ingest the revelation. Jim turns slightly to Steve, “that jerk. He _would_ do something like that.”

Steve just grins to himself, “yeah, yeah he would.”

“So, as to would you be ‘barking up the wrong tree,’ Captain, I would say yes if you wanted him for sex.” She says it bluntly, shrugging without even flinching even though Steve’s cheeks get pink, “but, I’ve seen how he looks at you two, so maybe…Maybe he would make an exception.”

Jim holds up his disguised metal hand, “not what we’re looking for, toots.”

She arches a brow, “oh?”

“Sex just wouldn’t be enough.” Steve answers calmly. “We want _Tony_ , not just his body or Iron Man, or the genius, but the guy that makes us…”

“Feel like we’re home.” Jim’s voice is a little hoarse at admitting it, he squeezes Steve’s hand again and the two share a warm look before regarding her again

“Pep, doll face,” Jim gives her a small smile, “we’re guys that are seventy years outta our time. We should be dead.” Her eyes widen a little, but he pushes on, “this life we’re living is a second chance at something, to be happy maybe. For both of us, Tony is a huge piece of that, you know?”

With her eyes a little too warm, looking at these _young_ men that are literally five years or more younger than her, Pepper suddenly feels like maybe this would be the best thing she could ever do for Tony; she could actually take some of his burdens away if he could just _accept_ something good for himself.

“As much as I’d hate to say it,” she begins slowly, “the best way you’ll probably get him is by seducing him. He… Tony shies away from relationships, just a gut reaction I think. Leftover from his time dealing weapons and what kind of worth he has, so if you came right out and said you wanted a—well, whatever—sex is probably the best route to show him he’s wanted.” She gives them a sad smile, “I was his PA for years and his first play for me was…sex. We didn’t have a relationship outside of work before that.  But, after…after he came _back_ , became Iron Man, I don’t know. He changed so much, withdrew, so I think he can only quantify relationships with physicality. That’s the best I can explain it, boys.”

The two exchange a look she can’t read, before she can ask, they stand while still looking at one another.

“Thanks for the insight, Pep,” Jim gives her a half-smirk but his eyes are wounded for the hard truths.

“We appreciate everything,” Steve gives her a nod before turning on his heels, Jim’s hand still in his as they leave her office and shut the door behind them.

Pepper blows out a sigh and opens the bottom drawer again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk: Pepper Potts is scary. She will CUT you.


	32. Dreamscape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and Nat and the scene that brought the Avengers back to the Tower; someone has to save him from his fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...is the first pieces I wrote, so it's going to have some reiterations of things already passed (sorry) and will have Nat's account of what happened after that fight with Doom when everyone kind of realized Tony Stark was a mess (not sorry, it's a good scene).

His nightmares were always there, lurking in the small space of his unconscious mind where equations, configurations, the urge to just _build_ aren’t nestled in the few sparse inches of his grey matter. Of course, there’s plenty of material for his nightmares to grip, so many moments painted in horror that could drive him to the brink of insanity when he was powerless to pull up his outer shields in protection or to use his intellect to dive into a new project that, usually, effectively blocked out the slideshow of horror his life has been for the past few years. 

The abrupt transition from a devil-may-care playboy (while still maintaining the Engineer status quo below the public radar) to balls-to-the-wall superhero hadn’t been an easy one and hadn’t been without its’ own set of sacrifices.  Never losing the important parts of himself, the big dose of the wiseass, the intellect, the _need_ to just fucking create something with his bare hands; those traits all stayed with him—none of what lay underneath the public veneer of _Tony Stark_ went away. But, the Merchant of Death that just signed paperwork without considering the consequences, that douchebag, was no longer part of him.  Along with that, the exterior _Tony Stark, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist,_ he used for years to cover himself, the one that _seeped_ into his consciousness, wasn’t as easy a switch anymore. He couldn’t just turn everything into the _other_ Tony and schmooze it over like with the media. He could fight, he could build, he could keep just **fucking _moving_** _,_ he could overcome anything, anyone…except for his mind.  That specific machine, gears and code moving with organic processes, kept running like a fucking Duracell through massive trauma, sleep deprivation, fear, depression, sadness, joy, agony—its’ continuous grinding never stopped

Which is why he’s in the throes of another bad one, spread out on the entertainment room couch, gripping the expensive fabric like a lifeline, his chest heaving, sweat coating his brow, twisting in his sleep until the cover Clint silently laid over him an hour ago is wrapped around his legs, restricting him, lending more strength to the nightmare. _Trapped, **trapped**_.  His muscles clench, spasm in the deep drop of sleep.

_Choking on water, choking on blood, tinge of metal and graphite on his tongue, held under until his lungs are aching, ready to burst. The hands on him are impossibly strong, stronger than the damn armor, stronger than the Vibranium, stronger than any polymer or any new element he can make.  But, he’s a fighter, always was a scrappy shit, whether mouthing off to the old man or make-a-fucking-suit-of-armor-out-of-shit-materials-in-the-middle-of-the-desert kind of fight, didn’t matter.  He’s not the kind that is just going to roll over and die. Palladium couldn’t take him out and some fucker with a water fetish sure as hell wasn’t going to either._

_Numb and tingling, but he can move his hands in the syrupy body of water, pushing his aching muscles up to try grabbing the hands holding him down, using his considerable but human strength to peel fingers off, to grab wrists and tear them away from his neck and hair. Every time he succeeds, another hand replaces the last. He pulls, pushes, thrashes, and ducks, all to no avail with this superhuman strength…_

**_Can’t die this way…Bruce, Natasha, Clint, Thor, Steve…Steve and Jim. Steve and Jim need me…._ **

_But there they are, just like in his other nightmares, the other visions. Light slices through the water in an arch, reflecting off their bodies floating around him in a semi-circle; their uniforms are torn to sunders, blood painting the water around them, eyes open and staring without intent, without souls. It’s the whole family, Nat on his right, blood wavering around her torso and face, gouges dug through her abdomen, her lithe body arched as though she’d just taken the blow. Clearly, it’s the most serene expression he’s ever seen on her face, a peace that makes his goddam heart knock. Bruce, not the Other Guy, bare upper body bobbing gently in the deep next to her; his face also oddly calm to contrast his broken spine that bows his body over awkwardly, making his whole form grotesque with the white of bone visible. **How? How did the Other Guy not save him? How could the Other Guy let him…?**_

_Thor, head tilted up like he did when he looked up for the lightening drawn in by Mjolnir, is in his usual armor, the weight making him sink lower than the rest, bobbing against the algae. His halo of golden hair doesn’t disguise the fact that his lower jaw is completely missing, just the upper plate of teeth and tongue visible through the gore surrounding the wound. His eyes aren’t horrified, aren’t empty, but again there’s a calmness that indicates they didn’t fight it, this… Tony is horrified at the implications, they would fight. They would, should always fight._

_Clint, out of place since he’s not by Nat or Agent, is the only one that has the shocky expression (one Tony would never have expected, not on his favorite smart ass). He has the new uniform Tony made weeks ago, the reinforced material not even punctured with wound, but the automated quiver is gone, just his specialized bow strapped across his chest. Not that it would do any good.  His hands…his hands are gone, just the stubs of his wrists visible in the gentle, liquid sway. His kids, his little agents would never forgive Tony for this, **never**. He’d live with this for the rest of his life.  _

_And then, less than a foot in front him…it’s Steve. This isn’t the burnt, bleeding, torn open Captain America from the vision that spurned him to making Ultron, the first one that haunted his dreams… the difference is marked in the shock of pain in Tony’s chest. This isn’t just a dead team mate, this is a dead **best friend** , as if it were Rhoadey or Pepper in front of him instead. Tony gives up precious air to cry out, one hand letting go of the presence above him to try reaching out for the gloveless hands bobbing toward him in the water. The blonde’s face was bland, the lack of expression so unlike him, but those eyes, the endless blue dark and wide since his pupils aren’t dilating anymore… _

**_No. No, I can’t lose them all._ ** _**Not all of them at once, fuck, not even one. Fix it, fix it. There’s a way to do something. There has to be a way to save them…**_

_The specters of his friends seem to move closer in the water, surrounding him, closing in. The hands push and pull him at the same time; one of them is a metal hand, a mental arm with a red star. His mouth opens to scream. **Jim, Jim, Bucky!**_

In the communal kitchen, she is the first to realize the extent of his nightmares.  Even though she’s come down for some of Wanda's stash of hot chocolate to take back up to her floor with a certain scientist, her head comes up at the nearly imperceptible noise. Intrigued, she steps into the doorway, peering out into the dark while the milk heats up on the stove, enough for two.  The next sound that follows is the moaning, the half-babbled haze of words coming from deep within the quiet, and she briefly wondered if he wasn’t just awake and talking to the AI in the ceiling. Or…perhaps he is entertaining company of a blonde persuasion.  That thought, the one in which those two (or three depending) had finally stopped running away from something so obviously right, makes a half-smile form.

But, the next noise is choked off abruptly. Less than a fourth of a second and she realizes what’s happening, bare feet stealthy as she crept through the doorway and into the shadows of the next room, peeking around the corner to overlook him thrashing on the couch.

Touching him, calling to him, might make things worse, even if he’s (secretly) one of her favorites; all the broken ones are (which is how she and the good doctor managed to find yet another hand-hold). As well, she knows he’s too broken, too stubborn to take anything from anyone without a fight—even something so simple as comfort and assurance. _There are exceptions_. She gingerly backs out the doorway, speaking gently to the AI in the ceiling,

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, is anyone else awake?”  She’s secretly hoping Sam, Steve, or James would be up, give her a hand with their PTSD experience.

“Of course Agent Romanoff,” the calm voice, a tinge of accent, gently asserts, “Captain Rogers is down in the gym and Sergeant Barnes is on the roof. The others in the Tower are, however, asleep on their own floors, except, of course Dr. Banner as he is on your floor.” 

She sighs, of course the dynamic duo would be awake the one time Tony needed something more than a cup of coffee. “Please contact both Captain and Sergeant. Perhaps their combined _expertise_ may prove helpful.”

From the entertainment room, a quiet chuff and choking sound is reminiscent of ones she caused to other…”detainees,” other lifetimes when her ledger wasn’t so much of an issue with her conscience. It could have dripped all day and none of that would have mattered to the other person. The last decade with S.H.I.E.L.D and the last few years with the Avengers have changed her in more ways she wouldn’t have seen coming. Damn it, she’d actually come to like a sarcastic rich boy like Stark. More so, she saw the validity in protecting a man that refused to protect himself over others.

The hidden part of her heart goes out to him, but this time, she can’t come riding to his rescue. Besides, it’s the perfect thing to start the proverbial ball rolling. 

As an undercover employee of Stark Industries, Natalie Rushman got the first view of what an incredible pile of bullshit the outer image of _Tony Stark_ really was; an amazing façade he managed to hold around him like the pre-armor wall between him and the outside world. As complex a man as Stark is, more than just his claim _genius, playboy, billionaire, philanthropist_ , his failings and pain were his and his alone to bare. The rest of the team had come to trust and rely on one another since Ultron was destroyed and the Tower renovated for them to live as a group again. Even the newbies had come once Steve convinced Tony that he was _still_ part of the Avengers.  The fleeting expression (incredulous and a little afraid) on his face had crushed her, making her feel for the man. He’d truly believed he’d lost them all with the creation of Ultron. But, Tony remained Tony, the funny, snarky billionaire setting himself aloof, trying to hold himself to impossible standards, coming up from his lab with grease and grime, creating new ways to keep them safe without making it seem like he cared, like he had a heart, and all of them had carved a place in it. 

Of course, earning the team’s trust back wasn’t easy, not even with the best of intentions that went into the creation of the killer AI. As he was wont to do, Stark had enacted his self-imposed exile, shutting himself up in the Tower after the new Avengers’ HQ was built. He was still on the news with SI’s latest creations and the new security association, but other than those instances, Tony Stark seemed to vanish. Similarly, he appeared less when he and Pepper called it quits… She stayed as SI’s CEO, but the break-up took up space on every rag magazine. None of them missed it, of course; they may have been training, but they weren’t left in the back woods. And still, none of them bothered him. Stark would need space to heal, or so they explained to Bruce after he finally returned from his own exile to learn of S.H.I.E.L.D’s downfall and the new team.

What didn’t change is that Tony still created weapons tech and other things for them, even for the new guys. Plain boxes without names or logos just showed up at the new compound, but they all knew. They knew Stark’s work, his precision. Even F.R.I.D.A.Y helped him with his obsessive need to maintain some covert contact with the team, keeping up with the mission plans and hacking into the comm lines so he could keep up with fights. Not that he ever spoke or added opinions, just monitored. Steve, passive aggressively didn’t do anything to combat Stark’s hacking, making it seem like Tony was still on the team since apparently, his “retirement” from Iron Man hadn’t stopped him from worrying.

The final straw was the big fight again Doom (not that the _Four_ were any damn where to be see when their pet villain decided to fuck with space/time) with portals opening around DC.  Tony couldn’t have kept out of that fight, no matter his feelings.  They’d been too outnumbered, out-gunned.  None of them but Banner had any knowledge of how to stop the kind of tech Doom was shoving at them.

Out of the blue, Tony had showed up on the battle field with three other auto-piloted suits (ones that were obviously beat-to-shit and old, just like the suit he was wearing) and saved their asses without a hint of hesitation; he’d even avoided the usual show. The team hadn’t been that long or deep into the battle when the suits just zoomed overhead (two sputtering periodically).  The three broke off from the main Iron Man suit piloted by Tony to take different quadrants where the portals were being guarded by the bots. And Stark had slid back into the suit like he’d never left, dipping down to street level for brawling in between shutting down each portal one-by-one, the paint worn off in spots. Even in a half-functioning suit, he worked seamlessly with Sam, Wanda, Vision, and of course, Rhoades.  They had all, just as easily, accepted his quips, locations, directions, and observations. The missing piece was back.

However, just as he’d come, though, he left without even waiting for a thank-you or back-talk or after-battle food, flying back to the “Stark” Tower with his damaged suits trailing behind him. On the team, only she was left to stare at Steve’s broken expression as he watched the suits go, his lips moving soundlessly to put Tony’s name out there like a blessing or a curse.

The rest, as they say, was Fate. Less than twenty four hours later, she, Steve, Bruce (after he slept the Hulk transformation off), Thor, Vision, Wanda, Rhoades, Sam, and Clint had just showed up in their normal clothes with pizza and drinks. F.R.I.D.A.Y had let them land on the roof without hesitation, seemingly relieved when they moved en masse to the communal floor (taking a few moments to gaze around at the restored surroundings), leave the pizzas on the counter and begin the descent to Tony’s workshop, not like they needed the AI to tell them where he was. The answer was slightly obvious. Coming in front of those darkened glass doors was like stepping back in time after the first invasion of New York and here they’d all congregated. With a nostalgic smile and everyone chattering around him, Steve beat on the darkened doors until Stark via the AI gave the okay to let them in.

When he finally did, and the doors opened by themselves, the team, of a singular mind, instantly regretted not keeping up with him. Their smiles faltered at the scene.

Lying on his mental workbench with his shirt pulled up under his arms, trying to replace the arc reactor with shaking hands while DUM-E and Butterfingers whirled around the table in distress, Stark looked worse than any of them had ever seen (and that included watching him near death from Palladium poisoning) during their time in the Tower. He’d lost twenty pounds or more, gaunt-looking with bloody bandages wound around his middle and the sleepless look making his eyes too dark in his pale face. She could count the number of ribs and muscles, his cheeks hollowed out and eyes haunted. Something buried deep in Natasha twisted for him.

Tony’s head tilted back comically on the table to look at them in the doorway and he’d seemed just as shocked as they did, probably assuming it was Pepper and Rhoades at his door. She remembered being surprised F.R.I.D.A.Y hadn’t let him know the minute they landed the Quinjet on top the Tower.

“Shit,” he blurted abruptly while the old reactor, half-way out of his chest, blinked menacingly twice before going completely dark. Stark hissed, jerked in reaction, head tilting upside right as his hands started shaking more. That light winking out spurred them all into immediate movement, eyes wide with fear.

Steve reached him first, hand on Tony’s to hold the new reactor, “Bruce! Get the reactor changed, my hands are too big to do it.  Do you remember how Tony showed you?” At Banner’s nod and nudging Tony’s fingers away from the one half-way out of his chest. The tank didn’t even get in his way, convenient hole cut in let him work with the reactor’s casing completely. He was quick to disconnect the wires while Steve continued on, “Nat, we need a first aid kit, there’s got to be one around here somewhere. Vision, get F.R.I.D.A.Y to give us a scan of his injuries, especially since the reactor went dark.  We need to know what we’re up against. Rhoadey, get that one doc from medical on stand-by just in case. Wanda, upstairs in the common room, water for Tony, if there’s none in the fridge, try looking on my floor.  Sam, try to round up DUM-E, Butterfingers, and U so they don’t get in the way trying to ‘help’. Be easy on ‘em, okay?”

Butterfingers grabbed on to her sleeve to lead her away while Steve kept up with the orders, letting Bruce take over the hold on the arc reactors. Once his hands were free, one automatically went to Tony’s bicep, staring down into the mechanic’s face (when she saw the first clues as to how the good Captain felt about the resident genius).

“Hey, hey,” Stark protested weakly, “we’re good here, no need for anything. Besides, what the hell are you guys all doing? Hill and Coulson have got, like, a week-long debrief lined up, right? I mean, c’mon, it is _Agent_ for God’s sake. Geeze, Rhoadey, good to see you, sunshine buttercup. I missed you, babe, like the flowers miss the rain. Legolas, how are those exploding arrowheads, hm? Epic as hell, yeah, I know.  Hammertime! You made it back from the planet-of-everything-scary-and-medieval, good to know you’re in one piece. You know, Brucie Bear, we should bond over something other than-“ he was cut off by the soft hiss and pop as the old reactor came completely out of his chest, a spark igniting in Bruce’s hand while he hurriedly made the necessary connections and slid the new reactor home. Stark’s face twisted in something like pain through the process, his breath leaving in a whoosh.

“Tony,” Clint starts loudly, yanking the bloodied shirt up to hiss at the wrecked bandage. He accepted a pair of scissors from DUM-E while Sam kneels down to talk to U with a smooth tone. Barton glances up and nudges Steve a step to the right so he could start to cut away the blood-encrusted bandages. “Why the fuck didn’t you stop at medical?  Or go to a damn hospital.”

She pulled the battered first aid kit off the top shelf Butterfingers pointed to, still listening to the goings on as she opened the box, half-expecting a few Band-Aids and burn cream or just a half-full flask of whiskey. Ah, bandages, gauze, a pack with sterilized needle and thread, a few more things she didn’t expect for Stark.

The engineer didn’t reply to that, just looking at them all around him as the new reactor glowed softly. He laid his head back on the hard metal table, closed his eyes for a moment to just breathe.

“Tones?” James put a hand to the engineer’s shoulder, “why didn’t you call me? Seriously, asshole.”

“Call you for what?” Stark didn’t even open his eyes, “to tell you we needed a date night? Don’t get me wrong, we totally do, I haven’t been properly wooed in forever, but I knew you were busy. Besides, I’m fine. The suit didn’t hold up the bots as well as I thought it would considering it was the best functioning of the ones I had left, still a beat-up piece of shit but better than nothing, right? At least it didn’t shake to pieces, so nothing to worry about. No harm, no foul-“

“You’re hurt, goddammit,” Steve interjected in the ‘Captain America is Through Taking Your Insurmountable Amount of S **hit,** Stark’ tone (everyone paused to look at him for the curse word).  “So, _yes¸_ that _is something to worry about._ Tony, you’re still an Avenger, retired or not. You should have **acted** like it and gone to medical.”

Stark opened his eyes at that, his gaze going immediately to Steve, and something the Captain saw there made him blow out a sigh.

“You didn’t think you were. Tony, my God,” the hand on his bicep squeezed gently, “when are you going to get it?”

“I get a lot of things, you know.  Genius, right? Have I mentioned that before? I think I’ve mentioned that before.” The words were his usual humor, but the tone was hoarse, almost cracking.

“Shut-up, Shellhead.” Steve said good-naturedly. “Ultron was what it was, and you learned from it. Now, it’s time to come back to the fold.” Steve glanced up at her, still holding the first-aid, kit meaningfully.

Stark needed to hear the future plans, so she just nodded and gave a go-ahead gesture before moving up to Clint, taking in the detail of the ripped gash along Tony’s ribs. The white of bone winked at them while Clint got the last of the gauze cut away.

“We’ve already been talking to Coulson about coming back to the Tower since he took over as the Director for you, now that it’s up to snuff again. The new installation is needed for the rest of your spy network to get their act together and…we’ve all agreed we don’t want to stay there, with the old S.H.I.E.L.D still on its way out. We-we all think it’s better if we stay out from under their thumb.” Steve watched Stark’s reactions while he spoke, “we weren’t going to make any plans without consulting you first, but it would be easier for you and F.R.I.D.A.Y to monitor the team during battles from here if you weren’t ready to get in the suit yet. No one would blame you for taking some time after the fall and all the stress you were under as Director.” His mouth quirked in a half-smile, “doesn’t seem like the case, apparently, but until you heal up from this, that’s all you’re going to be doing anyway.”

Stark cleared his throat, trying for his usual aloof nonchalance, “you all… _want_ to come back? Here, I mean?”

“Do you want us to?”  Steve countered, leaning down to put their faces closer, “we’ve given you almost eight months, Tony. If you need more time, that’s fine. We’re not going to push it-“ on Tony’s other side, Bruce quirked an eyebrow at the two ( _there may be a new development_ , he thinks to the Other Guy, who just gives a grin like he already figured that out) as he runs a wand over the shining arc reactor to make sure it was displaying the correct output; his eyes dart to Rhoades, catching the Colonel’s curious expression. Looks like little to no damage was done to Tony’s heart with the magnet failing, Thank God for small miracles.

Even though he’d been back for a few months, Bruce still had a momentary hesitation before he interjects between the two. “You always have a full plate, Tony, whether it’s Iron Man, Stark Industries, the charity of the month, the Avengers, and recently trying to pick up the pieces of S.H.I.E.L.D.” His check of the arc reactor gone well, Bruce gives his “Science Bro” (Tony’s odd show of affection) a pointed look over the rim of his glasses. “Don’t feel like this is something you _have_ to do. You’re a part of the team no matter where we end up, you know.”

“True story, bro,” Clint chirps as he dives in the first aid kit she’s holding. “Seems like a waste of a perfectly good Tower and all, but it’s good, Stark. A perch is a perch.”

From behind them, Sam is playing dodge with the bots, his quick feet spinning around them, “even if you don’t want people in this sweet tower, that’s all good, man. Seriously, we all have our off-base housing, too, you know.” He cackles as DUM-E’s claw misses his t-shirt. “Too slow, little man!”

“Yeah,” the engineer interrupted Nat’s seemingly next opinion, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “I’ve got all the floors re-done, finally. It’s ready for the Avengers to come back. _All_ the Avengers.” He gives a glance over at Sam who is now tossing a tennis ball for U.

Steve’s blue eyes twinkled as a grin stretched wide, “good. ‘Cause we’re gonna invade.” That seemingly settled, the Captain turned to Clint, “what have we got?”

“A mess. Jesus. How in the hell did you even get this bandaged? Bruce?  I don’t know, we may need Medical after all. I’m seeing ribs here.” Barton glanced up, his gaze more troubled; his eyes flicker to Steve with a pointed message. Steve moved to the head of the table and put both hands on Tony’s shoulders to keep him still.

“Tony, deep breath,” and abruptly threw antiseptic on the wound.

“Fuck!” His body arched hard, twists in an attempt to get over the pain while Bruce knelt beside Clint and whistled. But, damn. Bruce had spent his time in the third-world, treating whoever he could; if he was getting antsy about the tear in Stark’s side, the team knew it was serious.

Vision, still in his uniform sans cape (as of yet uncomfortable in other clothing), overlooked his creator with his unruffled attitude, “F.R.I.D.A.Y has advised us of several other minor lacerations, a possible concussion, impairment of the arc reactor, and this injury from the damaged sustained to the armor.  In the last 24 hours, the bandages have been changed only once and an alarming amount of blood has been lost. Medical is advised.” Wanda returned to his side and held out the bottle of water for Tony, still unsure of her welcome in the Tower but determined to set right some of her wrongs, beginning now.

From above Tony’s head, Steve shrugged and put the water bottle in Tony’s hand, “Medical it is, then, Stark. We bring the food.” He helped get the other man in a sitting position and held his shirt up to the bottom of the reactor casing for Clint and Natasha to wind clean gauze and bandages around his abdomen to keep pressure. Seemingly in a daze, Tony didn’t fight them, didn’t start rambling on about whatever subject he could to distract his mind from the pain, but remain oddly quiet to let the team do what they needed to do to take care of him. It’s a first.

For once, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself except let Steve hold him up with an arm around his back while trying to keep his arms out of the way.  His lack of chatter made the room’s concern turn up a notch.

Natasha pulled his shirt back down after the clean bandage was secured and grabbed his legs to scoot him off the table. “Vision, Wanda, grab the pies. Clint, go ahead and fire up the Quinjet while we get Tony upstairs.”

Thor, quietly watching the happenings with a critical eye while staying out of the flurry of movement, finally straightened from the table he’s been learning against and strode forward to Tony’s right side.  His eyes, much older since the last time Tony had seen him, were concerned, but Thor was an old school kind of ass-kicker and those guys didn’t just _talk_ about how worried they were.  Instead, they would just fucking hover and muscle their way around, just like the way the god gingerly picked up the engineer’s arm to pull it over his shoulders; he didn’t ask, didn’t placate, just expected Tony to deal with it. Steve on his left, did the same.

To hurry things along, James patted the bots to reassure them (and extract Sam from their enthusiastic hold). He gave the three new orders in rapid succession, putting Butterfingers on clean-up duty, U had to go back on the charger since his claw was visibly drooping, and DUM-E had to get that damn blender clean (no more motor oil smoothies! Seriously, you wanna kill the guy? _Then_ apologizing because the little thing’s claw drooped with a low beep). Sam’s look was absurdly grateful. He grabbed a messenger bag for James to shove a Starkpad in for Tony to use while waiting in medical and followed him upstairs to continue the search for fresh clothes the mechanic may need.

Shakily, Tony exhaled as he managed to get his feet to hold weight. His arms tightened to start pulling away, “hey, we’re good. I can get there by-“

“Tony…Brother.” Serious, not booming voice but something softer. Thor’s arm came around his waist, careful of the injury. For once, he wasn’t calling the engineer the ‘Man of Iron’ or ‘Son of Stark,’ but even the god had apparently had his own feelings about the engineer’s absence from the team as well if his silent observations of his current state of stress and exhaustion said anything.

Looking at the god sideways, Stark sighs a little and lets the mask go. “Okay, okay…thanks, big guy. I could use the help.” The words were a little bitter, but he said them anyway.

Thor’s smile was wide but didn’t reach all the way to his eyes, and Tony made a mental note to start prodding as soon as they were all moved home. Thor mostly carried him to the elevator with one hand anchoring the shorter man’s uninjured side to his own with the rest following behind them. Steve, on the other side, bent down just enough to make sure Tony’s arm could lay across his broad shoulders without strain, looked at him fondly with something else smoldering in the depths of his eyes…

In the here and now, however, this might be an opportunity that could save him from himself, if she stuck her hand in to push things alone.

She muses while watching the shadows move in the light of the arc reactor.

A soft sigh. If she would have been anyone else, the sudden appearance of Jim “Bucky” Barnes would have caused heart failure (she’d never be able to bring herself to call him by Steve’s nickname). The Soldier training still ingrained on his psyche would never fully leave him and being a silent, sneaky shit was just one of those perks. However, Natasha is one of the best, a brand of the elite he can never touch, even with the serum and 70 years. She merely raises a well-sculpted brow at the tall super soldier just suddenly by the window behind her. Without words, his gray eyes are drawn to the mechanic on the couch, tangled and sweating, light moving more rapidly as his panting increases by increments.

At his raised brow, she gingerly, slowly, reaches a hand out to pat him on the arm and steps back into the kitchen where her milk is still simmering on the stove.  A bare movement of shadows is him stepping further in the room. By the time she does, the elevator is swishing open, showing the bent over form of the Captain, his hands braced against the mirrored walls, head hanging off his shoulders, muscles loose. He hadn’t unwrapped his hands but had at least thrown on a clean shirt as he glances at her, brow quirked in question. 

Without needing so many words, she tosses her head toward the common entertainments room and goes back to pour the milk in two mugs. 

**

Dark blue and grey eyes meet over the man thrashing on the couch. Too many years of friendship, changing into more intimate knowledge of the other’s mind, put them on the same page with merely an exchange of expression. They read each other like experts (Steve and Bucky, not the Captain and the Soldier) and come to a silent agreement. Their gazes drop to the man panting on the couch. In a short span of time, he had unwittingly become _their_ mechanic. _Their_ Tony.

It was such a subtle shift that neither of them really came to that conclusion until now, even though they’d spent the last few weeks discussing the man below them on more than friendly terms but rather with real conviction. Steve admired him for his strength, his bravery, his _heart_ , and couldn’t help finding Tony’s quips, his under-handed caring for the team, his obsessive nature, all of it sort of endearing. He held Jim at nights when it was just the two of them and talked about it when the topic arose. On the inverse occasions, when he was sprawled on Bucky’s pecs, face buried in his neck and that hand rubbing slowly over the back of his shoulder blade, Jim would phase between himself and the programming. He’d deliver an analytical commentary on Stark’s qualities as a fighter, as an engineer, as a counterbalance to them, no emotions behind the evaluation, making Steve nervous enough to stop the whole rigmarole if this situation would cause Bucky to revert to the Soldier every time. But then, the chest under his cheek would shake with laughter and those grey eyes would have a twinkle of mirth. He’d give some wiseacre remark about Tony’s knack for pissing people off at the wrong time or how anyone could miss the fact the man had an _incredible_ ass, better than any dame _._ He’d unravel himself from that cold exposition and get some humanity back in his voice when describing how Tony made him feel safe, wanted. It wasn’t just the mother hen in him that wanted a new kid to take care of, but it was the want to care for and be taken care of by that man.

They kept up this repertoire, becoming more secure in the idea that their affections could stand the weight of one more person.  Specifically, the man that welcomed them both in with open arms, the one that gave them tech, watched their backs, programmed F.R.I.D.A.Y to alert him when one or the other was having a bad night, a bad attack, a moment of weakness, whatever. Tony hadn’t let either of them wallow in their fears alone; hadn’t let anyone on the team, really. It was the Tony behind the tech, the madness, the _masks_ that they craved.

Neither soldier focuses on their own assessment at that moment.  There is more pressing matters at hand.

The wise guy, the one with the big heart that doesn’t _need_ anyone else, is making wounded noises in his sleep.  It’s surely not the first time, and both soldiers are angry at themselves at all the times they missed out on being there for him. It had been long enough, that Jim had settled in, had healed, and had gotten himself back. It had also been long enough that he and Steve figured themselves out. That part wasn’t quick of course, getting used to being together again. It was, it became…something so profound, so _needed_ and _warm_ , so comfortable and comforting all wrapped up.  An old and new relationship, echoes of hiding in the 40’s with the freedom to be who they were today. In the here and now, they were more than the old incarnations of Steve and Jim; their trials over 70 years brought them tighter together than ever before.

However, they’d been putting off the next step in the plan, with good reason, sure. Looking down at the tortured expression on Tony’s face while he thrashes makes them both question if the reasons were really that good in the first place.

Steve moves around the couch to Bucky’s side and they both sink to their knees as Tony’s hand flings out in desperation. Facing him, careful not to touch him yet, Steve starts talking softly in a low pitch, calling out to the mechanic while Jim watches, hand hovering over the fall of dark hair. Just as sudden, Tony’s whole body jolts, making him wake up with a scream choking in the back of his throat and cold fingers of pain and fear still throbbing in his chest.  His body acts like a thing apart from his brain, jerking up before he’s even fully awake, trying to reach through the water to get a hold of Steve while clasping on to Bucky’s reaching metal hand so he can pull them both out, **_out_** of that death-trap. The Duracell that is his brain stutters on the singular thought path: _get them out._

What he flings himself into is warmth, strength, muscle, blood, and bone—not cold, slippery dead flesh.  The blood is still flowing, the heart beating steady, _alive_ under his own chest where he smacked again Steve’s front. He’d flung himself right up into Steve’s embrace.  He doesn’t even realize the captain and the tin man move from beside the couch; instead, he feels the arms close around him, not detaining, but are firm reality keeping him grounded. His numb brain doesn’t even register that Steve is straddling his legs, one knee on the couch between his, the other foot braced on the floor. As his eyes adjust to the dim, all he can see is the slight glint off Steve’s neck and shoulder as the arc softly illuminates them.

“We’re here,” the deep voice vibrates at his back an instant later, another chest pressing again his back that’s just as warm, just as alive, just as stable. “You’re in the Tower, it’s almost two in the morning, 6th of April. No caves, no falling, no one is hurt.” After saying so, that hint of the Brooklyn boy a twist to the words, the metal hand gingerly presses against the base of his spine as to not jar the shaking mechanic. That hand, along with the heart beating at his front, both make him take in a deep, shuddering breath. The hand presses more firmly, rubbing along his spine in a soothing motion. The hands at the end of the arms around him knead at the tense muscles in his shoulders.

“Everyone’s okay, Tony. No one’s hurt, everyone’s just sleepin’.” The chest vibrates against his own.

**_Alive…alive…They’re all alive_**. ** _Thank fuck._**

Tony sucks in a deeper breath against Steve’s neck, where the super soldier has him firmly pressed. He continues breathing shakily, blinking rapidly to keep the moisture in his eyes at bay. The fear, the pain of loss is still bitter on his tongue. The taste of the rancid water tinged in blood. _Thor with no lower jaw, Clint without hands…_ Tony’s fists clench so hard his wrists and fingers emit a series of cracks. _Nat, face like a china doll, empty. Just empty._

Then, all at once, his brain powers back on-line. “Wh-What the hell are you guys doing, huh? I thought there was an _Antique Road Show_ marathon on tonight?” His voice is shaky, hoarse enough that both soldiers have to strain just to hear him. Under their hands, his muscles tense again to pull away, to try pulling the _mask_ back up to hide his weakness.

The presence at his back, that hand starts moving in circles at the muscles along his spine, pointedly keeps him against Steve while his clenched fists protest, trying to cramp under the strain.

“We’re here for you,” Steve murmurs against his ear, the breath warm against his skin. “We…We’ve been there. We know what it’s like to wake up in a different head space.  _You’ve_ been there for us, remember? So many times, Tony…” Those arms, the ones that could crush metal, could rip, tear, and rend, tighten a fraction. “It’s okay, you know, to let us be here. It’s really all right.”

_No, no it’s not_.

His eyes are wide where neither of them can see, his disturbing thoughts flashing in another moment of mental weakness since he’s here in this warmth, in this safety. The part of him that is just a regular guy with wants, with needs, revels in being held, in the attention, and turns the safety net into something more intimate. The hands on his back would evolve the touch, knead his hips and thighs; the hands at his front would skim down his chest and back up to brace his neck so Steve’s head could tilt down with something raw to make his blue eyes even darker, and then…

He can’t, _can’t_ , let himself stay here. If he did, he might just say something, do something he can’t help; he would ruin it all, ruin them. These two finally, _fucking **finally**_ , got a small piece of happiness and goddamned if Tony was going to get in the way of that or, for fuck’s sake, shake it all up in the _bad_ way.  He’s hurt enough people in his life, caused enough damage (even if it was for good, even if it was with the _best of fucking intentions_ ). It would kill him if he did something to mess this up for the two guys that spent 70 some odd years looking for each other.  Panic spears through his chest like a bullet, colder than the water from his nightmare.

“Tony, breathe,” Barnes continues as his other hands moves to the right fist, using gentle force on the underside of the write to make it relax bit by bit. He’s clenching his fists so hard, his arms are vibrating. “Just breathe with us, okay?”

“I-“ _need to go to bed, have to go work on SI tech, am almost finished with Thor’s new Mjolnir carrying case, should be re-programing F.R.I.D.A.Y, to slice my **fucking brain** open to stop this shit before I get too deep, or is it already too late?_

He clears his throat while fighting the instinct to relax around the two surrounding him, “I’m okay now…it-it was a bad one, but not based on real events. I’m here.” But he hasn’t lifted his face from the niche where Steve’s should and neck meet, has he? _Damn_.

“You can tell us about it,” Jim soothes, rubbing the tight underside of Tony’s wrist. “Or not. Whatever you want.”

He has to say something or they’re not going to let him get up. _Fuck_. “Water,” he manages, “everyone in water.”

The two soldiers get the implications (things in Stark’s file under _extreme water torture_ and _Ten Rings_ ). Steve’s eyes meet Jim’s over Tony’s dark head; they share a moment of sympathy for the mechanic.

“They…everyone was already—“wheezy breath, “it was too late, but I had to _try_ , I couldn’t let that be the graveyard. Fuck, Clint didn’t have hands and Thor…”

Those hands, all four of them, are moving again, trying to soothe.

“Of course you would still try,” Steve’s chest rumbles again his, “it’s who you are, Tony. It’s the stuff you’re made of.”

_Fuck, why are you making this harder than it needs to be?_ He needs to pull away from them before it gets to be too much to withstand. He takes a deep, fortifying breath to be the bigger man and force his muscles to relax.

“I’ve had worse ones. Really.” Finally, he lifts his head up, so close to the two, he could turn his head just that much to the right and meet Steve’s mouth…or back a few inches look right up into Jim’s face peering down at him, a hand behind the soldier’s neck would bring him right down in range…

His face heats caught between the two lovebirds that were just trying to _comfort_ him for christssakes and here he is thinking about debauching them. He was a dirty man, a bad man with no morals.

“Tony…” the two say in tandem with completely different tone of voice.

“Seriously, I’m fine, but um, my legs are going to sleep, Steve,” he forces a laugh in his voice to make it friendly, jovial. “Time to let me up.”

Tony feels Steve’s head turn minutely and he knows the soldiers are looking at one another over his shoulder. He doesn’t want to see the expression on either face, doesn’t want that mother-fucking-hen thing happening right about now, _oh poor Tony, he had a bad dream, let’s smother him in cuddles until he feels better_. No. No, thanks.

But something different passes between them and Jim leans forward to press his cheek against Tony’s, the metal hand moving up his spine to settle on the back of his neck, a comforting weight that should not feel comforting at all.

“You want up, do ya?”

And that hand presses his head just that much sideways to bare more of his neck and that mouth ( _God, that mouth_ ) is pressing against the tendon, swipe of wetness a tongue laving the area for a gentle but insistent bite.

A sharp moan escapes him before he can control it.

“This…dancing around we’ve been doing,” Steve starts and his mouth is suddenly by Tony’s ear, warm breath, the deeper baritone vibrating down his spine like good scotch. “Me and Buck agree we’ve had about all we can take.”

“Had enough,” Jim echoes in his other ear.

“We see you, Tony” this time, Steve’s mouth is whispering again the other side of his neck while Jim breathes against him; the dual sensation from these two goes straight to his dick in a very pointed manner.  “We _see_ you.”

“It’s time,” Jim continues, “you see us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these guys...Seriously.


	33. The Right Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's been a bad man in the past, but Tony has been, is, trying to just do the right thing by them... 
> 
> (Continuated from "Dreamscape")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danno_Fan, I didn't want you to stay on your couch waiting ;) Seraphenanox, evil, well, tell me after you read this :D

His greatest weapons has always been his intellect. His mind functions on multiple levels of possibilities and perspectives, puzzling out a multitude of solutions with varying possibilities and capabilities. He has always seen infinite potential in _all_ things.

Right now, however, the only potential is ‘bad’ and ‘worse.’

It takes every ounce of willpower to wrench himself away, to force his lax muscles out of pliant bliss and into movement, to hold his weight, obey commands of which his mind is only half certain.  He gives himself _infinite_ points for doing “the right thing.” For once in his god-forsaken, selfish life, he’s doing right by someone else.

_Sure about that?_

_Sure I’m sure._

He ends up off the couch, turned to look at the two of them while backing up to put himself out of arm’s reach. His eyes are wide, the whites visible and hands palm-up in an ‘I’m not dangerous’ pose rather than ‘I’ll repulsor your ass off’ pose.

The two are looking at him with game faces on, like they’re ready to start fighting no matter what he comes up with.

_Breathe_. He does, but the panic bubbling up from his stomach is still there because, of course, it is and should be. _Jesus_ , this is like the top fantasy-making material in the existence of porn. His dick is tenting his sweatpants like a metal rod and they were all _still wearing clothes_. Even with panic/adrenaline running high, the _want_ , the _need_ isn’t fading or helping with his uncomfortable situation. _Fuck, FUCK_. His hands dig ruthlessly into his hair, trying to get _some_ modicum of control back.

“We’re sorry, Tony.” Is the first thing that filters through his systematic breathing (in, out, in, out). He hadn’t realized he was pacing back and forth like an animal on a leash, arms in a tangle above his head and a bouncing hard-on that still _isn’t going away_ (Clint in a purple bikini, covered with pudding, licking a spoon. Ugh, God _, why isn’t that working?!)_. He peeks out from behind his arm at the two sitting so still, just their eyes visible through the dim cityscape coming in the windows. They look like they’re not trying to spook him.

Jim picks up where Steve trails off, “we’re not trying to pressure you, Stark. Believe me, that’s the last thing we want ta do to ya here. Okay? We’re sorry if that’s how it’s comin’ across.” The shadows falling across Jim’s face are slightly pink, so utterly desirable that Tony’s dick throbs hard in time with his heartbeat. A noise escapes his throat, low and growling. He gives himself a hard mental shake, closing his eyes against the lust. _No. Time to pull out the big guns. Be the better man._

Stark lowers his arms, stalks to the coffee table that had been pushed a little off to the side. He slides it in front of the two, still sitting back a little far for comfortable reach, and sits down with his eyes dark and thoughts racing with the horrible things he would need to say to make them understand. Looking at the two carefully, he’s struck (and not for the first time) by how young they truly are to have been through so much, to have suffered. Steve is no more than twenty-four and Barnes not even really thirty… That must mean he really is a pervert.

Tony breathes again, elbows braced on his knees so he can hide part of his face behind his hands. The two soldiers exchange a glance at his somber demeanor and wait.

“You have to understand,” his voice is deeper than he means it to be, no warmth, no hint of his usual mirth, “what this means.” No room for error, he isn’t rambling on but measuring, weighing every word.

“I—will _never_ be able to deserve this—“ a hand moves just enough to wave between him and the two of them “—ever. It doesn’t matter what I do or what I build for the good of people from here on out, I won’t deserve you, either of you, both of you. Won’t happen. Not after all the bad.” His eyes flicker over their intently listening faces, noting how tightly Steve’s hand is clenched around Jim’s. “If, by some miraculous turn of events, I can do what you want—“ his voice cracks slightly “—I can’t promise it won’t got to shit. Probability demands that it will. So, I’m not _safe_ for you two and what you’ve got going on because what you have right now, as is, is _stunning_. It’s right. I can see how beautiful you two are together, and it’s the stuff of dreams, believe me. Love like yours just doesn’t exist.” He puts his hands down to hide the trembling. “So, it deserves a chance, a chance it won’t get if I’m in the mix. And…that’s the truth, boys.”

Deep breath, as deep as he can with the arc reactor in his chest.

“Yeah. If what you two are looking for is depth, it’ll all come down badly and soon. If—if this is just a,” he flounders a second, “a sex thing—“ _it would kill me, it would be my undoing_ “—I could do it. For you two.” His voice is wavering slightly, stupidly.  His head has it right even if his other faculties can’t keep up. “But not—not yet, not…not until you two take time to talk about it. Just don’t,” _I **love** you both so much, so much_ , “don’t think I’m taking this lightly. I can’t” _won’t_ “see you two hurt more than you have been. You’ve _earned_ this chance.”

“Tony…” Steve’s voice is what brings his gaze back to them from staring at his hands and Stark can’t recall Cap ever sounding so sad before. Jim apparently isn’t any better. His face isn’t flushed with heat anymore; his grey eyes are wide and slightly watery, he looks half angry and half crushed.

“You’ll thank me,” Tony forces out harshly, trying to fix it already, trying to make it right again. _Fuck_ , he can’t make his tone steady. “I swear, one day when you’ll realize I’m right. This is the most unselfish thing I’ve ever done, but for you two, it’s the _right thing_. One day, you’ll get it.” His hand are shaking more, even clenched into fists as his sides and he finally stands, forcing himself to be calm. “So, that’s that. You two take your time to talk about the other offer.” He leaves them abruptly, turning before they can gather themselves to fight back.

The elevator door opens without a word so he doesn’t have to stop and closes behind him the second he’s inside.

“Thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Of course, boss. You want a lockdown on the workshop when we get there?”

“Yeah. Blackout mode. Emergencies only through the intercom.”

“You’ve got it.”

Once he’s there, in his sanctuary, door securely closed behind him and the windows are already completely blacked out, Tony allows himself to sink to the floor and shake.

***

It takes a week for him to stop grieving and calm down.  Luckily, no Avengers’ emergencies come up (week without a seven story squid-monster is _always_ a win) and enough business at SI keeps him out of the Tower or in his workshop until he feels like he can deal again.  He is already dressed in one of his favorite suits when Pepper comes out of the elevator to the penthouse, seemingly shocked she doesn’t have to drag, cajole, or demand he attend the board meeting today.  She gives him a smile as they ride to the communal floor together so Tony could have a last cup of coffee before this shindig. 

The majority of the team is present (as are the two soldiers) in the usual morning routines.  While Pepper continues to outline the agenda, Tony pours them both a mug of coffee, dutifully mixing less cream and sugar in hers with twice as much in his. He completely convinces himself he’s not casting furtive glances to Steve flipping pancakes or Jim washing up some random dishes beside him.

Pep’s eyes catch the direction of his before he can pull away and she smiles gently, sadly before taking a drink of her coffee. He hikes a brow at her, but a minute shake of her head promises an explanation later. She does, however, put her mug down a sighs.

“You know what they’re going to ask for, Tony.” She tries to be quiet in the ruckus of the Avengers, but the talk dies down a little regardless.

“They aren’t getting it,” he doesn’t even hesitate, “no negotiations on that front. I’m pretty sure we already agreed on this.”

“We did,” she counters softly, “but I want you to be ready for it. Start thinking of how you’re going to counter.”

It’s his turn to sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Behind them, Steve clears his throat loudly. Two plates are already on the table with chairs pulled out for them.  Steve waits patiently with a small smile and an arm gestured to the seats.

“Oh, Steve, that looks wonderful,” Pep gushes gracefully, already moving to take the seat he offered. “Thank-you so much for thinking of us.” She gently touches his arm as he scoots her in.

As a testament to his mental state, Tony joins her, “thanks, Cap. Most important meal of the day and all.”

For some reason, Steve looks more pleased that Tony sat down to actually eat something.

Everyone else at the table gives casual waves and ‘good morning’ salutations, giving the well-dressed business people a few moments to dig in before the question wells up.

“Stark,” Clint’s no-nonsense manner rears, “if your board is giving you trouble about us—“

Tony nips the thought in the bud, “weapons.”

He swallows his mouthful, downs it with coffee as his eyes move to the whole team (except for Rhoadey, who is still in D.C.), letting them know there would be no negotiations on that front either. 

“The board has been back on the old bandwagon since we’ve been dabbling in the clean energy market. Things like trying to weaponized the arc reactor.” He gives a half shrug.

“They’re attempting to try soliciting for another government contract,” Pep fills in, “and weapons always win over technology, unfortunately. More profitable, more stable.”

That makes the table pause.

“We’ll handle it,” Tony wave a hand unconcerned, “it’s an old argument.” He empties his mug, pointedly not looking at Steve to his right side or Jim the next spot over.

“You made the right call, Tony,” Nat allows while savoring the fresh fruit still on the table (someone heard about Wanda’s affinity for strawberries and assured more fruit was stocked, not that Tony would know anything about it if anyone asked, damned if the Scarlet Witch hadn’t dropped by the reconstructed workshop to say ‘thank-you’ anyway). “But, we’re always available for back-up should you need to…get the _point across_.” Her cheeky grin warms him a bit, takes some of the tension out of his back and shoulders.

He was able to put his persona back on, like a comfortable jacket, cracking jokes, snarking with Clint, using pop culture references to see Vision at a loss, and making Pep roll her eyes when all she wants to do it laugh. His place on the team is still home, and again, as they finish up breakfast, Tony is struck with how much these people have come to mean to him. His eyes twinkle, settling on Jim’s smirk and wide grin on Steve’s face when they look at each other—he can be strong with them, he can be strong _for_ them.

Tony lays his and Pep’s plates in the sink, buttoning his jacket while she automatically straightens his already flawless tie.

“All right gang, don’t do anything bad without me,” he flashes his standard peace sign as the group calls out to him with luck and F.R.I.D.A.Y closes the elevators behind them.

To her credit, Pep waits a whole ten seconds after the doors close before she turns on him and punches him in the arm.

“Ow!”

“Oh. My. God, Tony!” She gives him _the look_ , the incredulous ‘I can but seriously can’t believe you,’ “ _Why_ didn’t you _tell_ me what was going on? I mean, I told you about Happy and—“

“Whoa, there. I have no idea what—” He’s already sliding on his favorite shades but his brows raise in mock innocence.

“Steve _and_ James? I mean, talk about getting your cake and eating it too. I mean, I have so many questions—”

“No, Pep. Sweethearts, that’ll—“ deep breath, “—that’s not going to happen.”

Her face falls a little for him, sympathy he doesn’t want to see and counts the floors instead, calculating the spans of cable between each floor. Well, that conversation is uncomfortable and over.

Tony forgot who was in the elevator with him.

In her ridiculously expensive and high heels, Virginia Potts snags his arm and almost _throws_ him up against the back wall of the elevator. Damn if she isn’t five inches taller than him in those shoes.

“Anthony—“

_Oh shit._

“Edward—“

_He’s in for it_.

“Stark!”

 

He cringes an iota as the elevator glides to an easy stop without command.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you’ve _refused_ a relationship with two of the most loyal, brave, and just generally good guys in, well, in somewhat recent history? Steve is just as adorable as you can get, not to mention the whole Captain America, good-guy, let-me-save-the-world thing, which is seriously hot. Not to mention he’s your best friend next to Rhoadey—“

“—and you—“ he interrupts briefly.

“He cares about you, Tony, He really cares about _you_ , not Iron Man, no the billionaire or the engineer, but you. And James…Don’t you see how happy he is when he’s with you, how happy you are? You treat him like a regular person, giving him choices, giving him room to be who he decides to be. He’s so obviously lost for you and believe me, Mister, you aren’t _any_ better. I see how you watch him when you think no one’s looking.”

Oh, now this is all making sense, the seduction attempt. “They came to you first,” his voice is hurt, hoarse.

“They came to me for advice,” she replies helplessly, “they were desperate, Tony.”

“Jesus Christ, Pep, tell me you didn’t—“

“Of course I did,” she straightens a little, “after everything the three of you have been through, all of you deserve some happiness in this life. Dammit, Tony, you’ve punished yourself enough for a hundred Ultrons.”

“I can’t, Pep,” there is was, a choking admission, so blunt and bleak that is hits her like a fist to the chest. No one would be harder on him than he was on himself and damn him, he doesn’t give himself an _inch_. She steps out of her Jimmy Choos to put herself closer to his height and he’s in her arms, against her warmth and comfort, the arc reactor against her softness as unyielding as he is.  Gently, she runs a hand through his hair, scratches his scalp with her nails, hitting all the right spots.

Tony’s body slumps into her, forehead pressed into her neck. For long moments, they stand just like that, at ease with one another.

“You know,” she starts after long moments, “the life you live now…It’s a scary one, more than before. It’s the never knowing. We may not have made it, and that’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I miss you,” he whispers in response.

“I miss you, too.”

He believes her.

“But, you can’t be you whenever you’re with me and…no matter how much it hurts, I understand it. You are worthy of happiness, Tony. You’ve _earned_ it, but in your line of work, you’ve got to carve it out when you can.  In between saving the world and inventing the next killer robot, you got to take it where you can.”

His heart warms a little bit in that old way when Pep said something so caring, “You worry too much, Ms. Potts,” he said, finally pulling back.  He didn’t look any better, still burdened beyond her ability to fix.

“I don’t worry enough, Mr. Stark,” she snarks back and steps into her shoes again.

“I—I’ll think about it all. Thanks, Pep.”

The elevator begins to move again and here he is, jumping into the next crisis without a net.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Holds out her box of tissues* I. Did. Not. Do. This. Tony totally cock-blocked himself, please don't hate me. 
> 
> And, Pepper is just bad-ass. Did I mention that?


	34. The Talk III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking Tony's suggestion and 'talking' about the offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a special circle of hell for people like me. Seriously.

Steve runs his thumbs over Bucky’s hand absently, the metal plates smooth except for a few nicks and scratches here or there. The plates are still, not moving in the amazingly flexible way Tony re-designed. The warm hand comes up for the fingers to rub on the underside of Steve’s wrists, right on the sensitive spot.

As Tony suggested, they’d spent the week debating back and forth, in between the daily routines. They hadn’t cornered their mechanic in any way, had given him his ‘space’ to make it easier for him to hide from them (like he didn’t think they realized what he was doing? Seriously?). Instead, the two soldiers had tried piecing together different motivations behind Stark’s rejection, the expressions on his face, the validity of his words. Hell, they’d even had some help accessing the old files from SHIELD (thanks, F.R.I.D.A.Y) to look into the more sketchy parts of Tony’s past that made him who he was today since Google could only bring up so many results that were so much TMI. But, pieces fell into place for a more complete picture of Tony Stark.

They debated calling Pepper again, asking her advice, but Bucky had nixed that idea. They briefly thought about brining Nat in on the dilemma, but that can of worms needed to stay closed until they got themselves straightened out.

“So…horribly sordid past, can’t see his own value as a person but as—“

“—Iron Man, an engineer, a billionaire, the whole Tony rigmarole.”

“So, he really believes in the bullshit he’s spewing, huh?”

“Yeah, the whole _ruin_ what we have thing.”

“What a mook. First off, he doesn’t have any data to support that theory—“

“Some scientist, huh?”

“You said it. And second, doesn’t he realize we’ve been a thing since 1941? I mean, c’mon genius.”

“1938. Geeze, I’m almost insulted.”

“You were always too sentimental about anniversaries anyhow.”

“Well. Let’s assume he has a reason to be…cautious. Take worst case scenario. We try it, it ends badly. What are the repercussion to us and the team?”

Two hours of weighing the cons, all they can think of (taking each villain by rote and how said villain would exploit any weaknesses; how would a messy separation affect the team dynamic? What if one of them just madly fell for him and wanted to be with _just him_?).). Substantially longer for the pros.

“We agree, then. He’s worth it. Good or bad, we’re gonna give it a go.”

“Seems so.”

“Then—“ sigh, “—Shit. We need a better plan. You’re the strategist. What do we do from here?”

“Well, the first attempt didn’t work, so we need a new plan of attack. We need a different angle, to make his weaknesses our strength.”

Perk. “We’re gonna use his own offer against him, Stevie. That’s how we’ll make this work.”

An eyebrow raises at him for elaboration.

“Yeah. See, we’re gonna accept his offer,” Jim is completely serious, “then we’ll work him into this,” hand waves between the two of them. “We ease him into it on the ‘low.”

“On the what? What is the ‘low’?”

Jim rolls his eyes, “the _down-low_ , geeze, keep up with the hip new slang.”

A suffering sigh this time, “swell. We’re going to, hm.  Actually, that could work. That could work beautifully if we execute it right.”

“’Course it’ll work. I mean, have you even _seen_ us? We’re prime Stark real estate here.”

Steve laughs out loud, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head.

“Captain? Sergeant?” F.R.I.D.A.Y interrupts gently.

“After hours, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Sorry, Steve.”

“It’s fine. What’s going on?”

“You asked to be notified when Mr. Stark returned from the board meeting and left the communal floor. He has returned to his own suite in the Penthouse.”

The two exchange a glance, “he’s not headed to the workshop?”

“No, sir.”

Jim’s metal hand tightens a hair on Steve’s. “Last chance to change your mind, babe.” His eyes are lighter gray, like how they used to be before all Hydra’s Asset took him over. “I get it if you don’t want to share. I really do.”

“Same to you, _mon loup_ ,” his voice is deeper than normal, eyes twinkling. “I don’t want to rush you into anything. I get it if you have reservations or if you need _time_. Jesus, take the time you need.”

Jim smiles, faintly at the nickname. He remembers France, well, he remembers a very _special_ time in France when Steve made him absolutely howl…like he still does today.

He stands without another word, just a smile and his hand held out. Steve shares the smile and takes the offering, sliding his palm over Bucky’s with a light touch. They meet in the middle of Steve standing, the kiss is sweet and warm with the beginnings of anticipation and lust. They part easily, holding hands, and move to the elevator.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y?” Jim calls, eyes on Steve as they step in, “tell Mr. Stark to expect company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly nervous about the next chapter, and I was totally going to re-write it so I didn't have crazy mad anxiety, but no. Nope. I'm going to post it in the next couple days anyway and the hell with it all.


	35. The Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because everyone has a breaking point; staring at Steve and Jim, Tony has finally found his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Danno_Fan, I cannot say 'no' to you. You wonderful people that I've apparently been killing (sorry...not really), you make me want to keep writing. 
> 
> WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT. No likey, no read. Or, stop at “Lockdown, GTFO protocol.” Secondly, one word to describe Tony Stark: Talented.

It’s his first drink in a while (like, trying to stay almost kind of _sober_ ) and he takes his time with the tumbler dangling from one hand. As much as he jokes about whiskey and bourbon, his first lady is and always will be Scotch. He and his father have that in common.

The first few sips are smooth, familiar, easing his nerves and taking the edge off.  It’s nice to sit back on his own couch on his floor and let his mind dart around from one idea to the next with its’ own leisure. So. Nice.

For once, he isn’t sequestered in his workshop with the next thing on his To-Do list pending completion, he’s not on some emergency, save-the-world mission, he’s not down on the communal floors to keep up the Stark mask around the others, but he’s just able to be himself in these moments of solitude.

For the next few seconds.

“Boss?”

“Yeah, babe?” The tumbler eases back to his mouth.

“Sorry for interrupting, but you’ve got company incoming. The Captain and the Sergeant.”

_Fuck_. This is going to be very uncomfortable and probably embarrassing for them. They are on their way to explain feelings and apologize and just _fuck_. Thank him for turning them down so he didn’t damage their love. Fuck. Just, fuck.

“Boss?”

“Yeah…let them in, F.R.I.D.A.Y.” _Get it over with and pour another_.

He doesn’t sit up when the elevator slides open but takes a deeper drink and tries to get his head on straight for this. The smell of food hits him before he sees the two move around in front of him.  Steve and Jim are going to be the death of him—seriously. The. Death. Of. Him. Jesus, the two are in their pjs, sweatpants riding low and soft-looking for his hands to just inch them down for those hip bones… the t-shirts that hug the outlines of shoulders and biceps are thin and leave little to his imagination. Both have damp hair from a recent shower…

_Were they kissing under the spray? Touching? Taking one another with moans and writhing in pleasure?_ He closes his eyes briefly as they take a seat on the table across from his couch in a parody of the last time he spoke with them about the right thing.  When he opens his eyes, they’re sitting side-by-side, thighs touching, holding hands loosely, but their expressions are soft, relaxed. They’re looking at him fondly, which is a good sign. They’re grateful he made the right call by them, not angry or bitter.

He’s done well.

“How did the meeting go?” Steve asks gently, eyeing the still mostly full tumbler.

Tony’s mouth quirks unconsciously, “well as can be expected. They’re excited enough by the fall product line and upgrades to let the weapons thing go for another quarter.” He sits up from his slouch, still holding the tumbler in hand. “The Avengers and SSARAS have been good for the company, good for the stocks, the clean energy initiative is progressing fast and gets us in with the environmental protection agencies. Good PR and all that.” He sighs, looking a little more tired than normal. “All good until the next big meeting. I can go back to doing what I do.” He sips finally, the burn easing the tense muscles in his shoulders. “What’d I miss here?”

“Nothing much,” Jim’s slight accent wraps around him, “no giant anything trying t’ take over the world. Bruce made lasagna.”

“We saved you some,” Steve grins at him, “it’s in your fridge.”

That was sweet, they both knew Italian is one of his weaknesses, right up there with coffee and soft-looking super soldiers… _Ah, shit_.

“That’s awesome boys, thanks.” His look, goofy and also fond, is probably as sappy as theirs.

A heartbeat, a glance between the two, a squeeze of joined hands and Tony knows it’s coming.  He forces his expression into pleasant, neutral lines. He takes another drink.

“We did what you said, thought about it, talked about it,” Jim takes the lead (not surprising), but it’s not the conversation Tony is expecting. This isn’t the way it should start. He tenses unconsciously, waiting.

“If this,” Steve continues, looking completely unruffled, “is the only way you’ll let us have you, then we’ll take it.”

_This is how I die_ , he doesn’t realize how hard he’s clenching the tumbler until a delicate _crack_ jars him out of staring at them. The two glance at the tumbler before looking back at him, still and waiting for a response.

After a moment, Tony swallows with difficulty, “I have to know you’re both okay…” 

It’s not what he means to say, not what he **should** have said—‘I don’t think I can do this,’ ‘You don’t know what you’re getting yourselves into,’ ‘This will only end badly for all of us.’ But no. He isn’t really going to deny them, is he? Pepper’s voice echoes, _“You’ve got to carve it out where you can.”_

Now, the two are so profoundly hopeful, like they expected him to reject them again as well; the two are unconsciously leaning forward toward him.

“And, if it becomes ‘not okay,’ it stops. Immediately. No argument, no taking one for the team, nothing. If it starts to _break_ , it has to stop,” Tony’s voice is firm, but his hands are trembling, strange for an engineer that has to rock steady.

“Agreed,” Steve finally answers, his blue eyes already darkening.

“Ditto,” Jim’s voice is deeper than normal.

Tony regards them both, raising the tumbler to finish off the contents without looking away and appreciating they had showered to come _to him_. Ice chinks against the glass, his forefinger picking out the crack up the side for a second before he flows to his feet, eyes for the two as he slowly sets the tumbler down on the table by the arm of the couch. Without bothering with words or fighting with himself anymore, he holds out both hands. There are still ways he can make this okay for them. There are still ways he can make sure they’re protected.

Neither hesitates; their hands are warm, different in texture. Steve’s long, thick fingers and wide palm, Jim’s thin, dexterous fingers gently moving over Tony’s to grip his hand. They let him pull them up and he turns, their hands in his, over his shoulders, leading them to the hallway, to his bedroom.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.”

“Lockdown initiated, GTFO protocol.”

Helplessly, the two follow, eyes burning, tracing the curve at the back of his neck to the shoulders, down the trim waist his suit jacket outlines, the supple curve of his ass through the pants. It doesn’t help both have seen him, numerous times, in tank tops working with the hard muscle of his shoulders and biceps flexing as he manipulates metal and machinery, the olive hue of his skin and narrow lines of his sides mouth-wateringly attractive. Gently, his thumbs stroke the top of their hands in tandem, a soothing gesture as if he thinks they may be skittish about this. He had _no idea_ how wrong he is.

The bedroom is dim, perfect. The bed set back in the room, away from the door and the windows. The blank television mounted on the wall silent with art surrounding it. A small, round table and two chairs are along the wall, papers neatly organized, at odds with the mess of his workshop.

It’s not the den of iniquity either of them expected, imagined. The bed is absurdly large but no BDSM contraptions or anything they can plainly see.

But Tony releases their hands, turning, his dark eyes intense as he slips off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the side while they watch and his reputation, the playboy persona, starts to make an odd type of sense when they watch him _move_. His hands come up with a natural grace, an undeniable magnetism while his fingers slowly unbutton his shirt one by one, his dark eyes never leaving them. It’s almost a dance, a seduction itself and they can’t look away.

The shirt also ends up on the floor, the arc reactor glowing gently under his tank to light up the clean lines of his collar bone. Steve huffs out a long breath and Jim is licking his lips, metal fist clenching.

Tony’s eyes settle on Jim first and he moves, only a few steps necessary to bring up a long, sinewy arm to wind a hand around the back of his neck and slowly draw the brunette in as if trying to keep from triggering the program (or giving him a chance to pull away).  With his hair tied up, the hand on his bare neck, Jim closes his eyes, shudders gently at the worn and calloused fingers holding him for the first touch of lips against his own. This is Tony, _Tony_. It’s not hurried or forceful or fast, but calm and thorough.  The mouth soft, moving over his own to feel and press, mustache tickling his lip, like Tony planned on mapping out every inch of Jim’s mouth before the tip of his tongue glides over the bottom lip for entrance. A soft noise breaks from Jim’s throat and he lets Tony in without hesitating.

The taste is metal, coffee, Scotch, all heady as Tony’s tongue tangles with his, sucks his into the warm mouth. Jim’s free hand automatically goes to the base of his spine to slide up, his other still in Steve’s grip tightens. He too far gone into sensation to notice Tony’s free hand moving with exquisite slowness up the soft skin of Steve’s inner forearm and further up.

Of course Steve feels the touch, has been _craving_ it for so long, but watching those two, the fellas in his life, makes his heart speed up, his face get hot, his skin tingle. He’s biting his lower lip to keep from groaning as their tongues pass from one mouth to the other. Bucky’s making these noises while he’s under Stark’s spell, his face pink with desire while the hand on the back of his neck holds him still. He is so into watching those two that he barely realizes the lightly skimming hand has wrapped around the side of his own neck for those talented fingers to tilt  his chin down enough that when Tony’s mouth leaves Bucky’s, he can move Steve’s head down enough to meet without rising on his toes.

His style changes dramatically. He’d been careful, gentle, thorough with Jim, but not with Steve. Tony’s thumb pulls his mouth open before they even meet and he’s already hot, harsh, and heavy—fighting with him even like this. He sucks on Steve’s bottom lip and presses hard, tongue dueling with his, in and out, breaking away just to come back for more. They always stood challenging each other because Tony didn’t back down from anyone, not even Captain America, making him toe the line just like everyone else did. It was one of the thing that made Steve want him so badly…

After less than a second, Steve is matching him, free hand finding purchase on his hip over the slacks, diving back when Tony pulls away.

Luckily, multitasking is a skill he is well-adept at using; while practicing oral snarking with Steve, his hand is moving down Jim’s neck to map the tendon there and down over the hard pectorals to put pressure on his abdomen until he’s under the hem of Jim’s shirt and can touch bare skin. Those fingers play at the lines of his hips underneath. Jim’s heart pounds against his chest as he watches the show, and the hand skimming over him makes him bite down on his lip so he doesn’t make any of those goddamned noises Steve always says he makes.

Finally breaking away, pulling back to look at Steve’s blown pupils, Tony gets to work; first using both hands at Jim’s bare waist to work the shirt up and over his head, fingers and palms skimming over skin as he does, then moves to Steve and completes the same action with as much touch as possible. He palms the small of their backs, moving them to the bed to put them on their backs, side-by-side with just enough room for him to kneel between them. His eyes are intense, moving from one soldier to the other with intent. He doesn’t need to tell them, the two turn to one another and move close enough to kiss, giving Tony the show he wants very, very badly. He can see the tendons working, tongues moving, hear the soft moans caught in the other’s mouth. His mouth waters for them, his dick a throbbing point at the pure beauty of them like this.

He slowly slides up between them on his knees, prowling up their legs with sensuous grace. His breath warms the expanse of skin at the hollow of Steve’s hip just as his beard scrapes over the sensitive spot, followed by lips and tongue swirling over the skin and bone that would lead to even more sensitive skin. As he wants, Steve gasps in Jim’s mouth, eyes fluttering.

After long moments of laving that spot (one of his favorite on both men), Tony switches to Jim, fingers gently skimming over the hip and along the lower ridge of abdomen before his bearded jaw follows, causing Jim’s hips to twitch hard, an abrupt, “ah!” in between the wet sounds of mouths working. His teeth nip gently at the protruding bone, tongue soothing as one hand works up Steve’s abdomen and the other teases over the obvious tent in Jim’s sweats. When those hips move insistent to get more friction, thrusting up against his hand, Tony moves back to Steve, cheek and beard moving up the increasingly sensitive side so the noises are from the blonde. The scratch becomes teeth and tongue along his ribs, over his abdomen, finding the certain spots on his body that would make him…Steve arches when a breath blows over his nipple, unable to control himself.

The two part and look down as Tony latches on, tongue working. Then, his dark eyes roll up to look them, and he sucks.

Steve’s eyes flutter, his hand just suddenly holding Tony there by the back of his neck, undulating under the sensation. Jim, however, is panting as the hand playing with the waistband of his sweats slips inside (the other mimicking the move on Steve). Talented hands lightly massage the top of their thighs, pointedly avoiding their trapped lengths. Instead, those fingers move above Steve’s proud line jutting straight and Jim’s throbbing curve to thread through the fine hairs and move to the opposite thigh.

Steve makes a noise deep in his chest, vibrating under Tony’s mouth so he moves to the other nipple, tonguing the delicate flesh for a few minutes. Then he’s back at Bucky’s exposed side, mouthing up to also find the other soldier’s hidden spots. He wants to wring every noise he can out of these two, to have a list of each sensitive area, every erogenous zone. He will have it because when he puts his mind to something, that shit happens.

Tony’s hands curve around to each ass, taking the sweats down as far as he can so he can cradle the muscled flesh in both palms. Jim arches hard, lifting his hips so his sweats come down farthest and a noise comes from the back of his throat as that mouth hits a spot right over his rib cage that makes his hand clench. Tony sucks and Jim bucks up hard.

“T-Tony,” is all he can manage.

Dark eyes roll up, move from Jim’s grey to Steve’s blue, both panting, both flushed pink and so very delectable.

“I want to hear you,” and his voice is so deep, so dark, making both soldiers shudder, “ _both_ of you. Don’t hold back.”

Jim moves, taking his face between both palms, and pulls Tony up, slanting their mouths together, hungry. He pours his want, his need into Tony’s mouth.

The hands, those hands, finally come around and grip them at the base and lightly squeeze.

“Please, please,” Jim whispers against his lips, eyes opening to see Tony’s eyes dilate. Fingers trace the vein on both straining lengths. Steve’s hips lurch up sharply while Jim just moans against the corner of Tony’s mouth. Hands make their way down to the tank top, one on either side. _How the hell is he still wearing a shirt…?_

Before Jim can just get the damn thing off, Tony breaks the kiss and pulls back, “further up the bed, boys.”

He gets off to get supplies out of the bedside table without looking, but instead watches hips, chests, and arms undulate as they move to obey.

Tony tosses the condoms and lube by Steve’s hip to gather the bottom of the sweats in both hands, anticipation making his heart stutter a few important beats. He pulls as Steve moves to watch inch by inch be revealed. All that golden skin, the muscles moving, shifting in sync that is Steve Rogers, how his mind works in all circumstances—in a beautiful and terrible harmony. The leggy blonde, now bare (no unders, Cap? How dirty…), lies back, an arm over his head, cheeks flushed, mouth red from kissing and biting his lip, leg cocked up, and Tony’s breath hitches. All that skin, the cock jutting proudly up, and Steve’s eyes are so, so blue, so full of want. _Need_.

Tony turns away from that look briefly, one knee already on the bed, but he may be too late. His heart swells to believe that look was just for him…

“Fuck, Steve,” Tony whispers, fingers already trailing over the fine bone on one ankle; Steve shudders as the mechanic’s eyes drink him in down to every detail. Eyes move back up as he leans down and runs his tongue over that delicate bone, giving a deliberate kiss.

“T-Tony,” that shouldn’t be as erotic as Steve think, but he’s leaking pre-cum from the dark desire in those eyes.

Those eyes blink lazily and the head turns to his other favorite soldier. Jim, good _God_ , Jim. Tony leans down to gather the legs of his sweats too, giving the same treatment, the heat of his gaze taking in every inch of the brunette as the final clothing comes off. More compact than Steve’s long limbs, Jim is utterly breath-taking, from the lines of his feet to the ankles, calves, thighs, and up. Tony can’t stop looking, licking his lips with dirty intent, making Jim pant a little.

These two make his mind switch into overdrive, contemplating _everything_ he wants to do to them. Dropping to the bed, his eyes flash with a predatory light and he comes down to mouth at Jim’s knee while a hand moves up the inside of Steve’s. On a whim, his tongue flicks on the soft tendon underneath. Jim bucks with a sharp noise and Tony grins, leaning in to attack.  He angles his head to nudge the knee up so he could reach…

“G-Goddammit, Stark, I can feel you smiling.”

He nips at the bend and leans in further to suck.

“Ah, fuck! To-ony,” well, if that’s what it causes.

By the time he’s done, the whole leg is trembling and the other hand is full of Steve’s lovely cock, just working it slowly so the blonde can utter soft moans under his breath. He gives the poor brunette a break and moves to the side of Steve’s thigh while the hand still works him.

“Stark…” Jim’s voice is dark with an edge he’s never heard before, even out of the Winter Soldier. It’s something else entirely, something that makes his heart pound harder. His eyes roll over, and whatever Jim saw made him groan.

Whatever it was pushed the two into action, hands pulling him to his knees, Steve just suddenly gripping his tank with both hands and not even _hesitating_. Those forearms didn’t even flex when he rips the shirt completely in half.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” comes tumbling out of his mouth before the two look down with heat in their eyes.

And stop cold.

_Shit_. His mind pops up the error message abruptly, shutting down previous processes. Of course everyone knew about the arc reactor in his chest. Hell, he showed the damn thing off every chance he could get (greatest invention _ever_ ), but he’d always been so careful to keep the scarring around and below the casing hidden. Ever since Pepper’s reaction…he’d always been so careful. _Fuck, how could he forget_?!

_Fix it._

“Well, awkward,” he babbles immediately before either can say anything, a tight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth automatically; he’s already inching backwards on his knees, both hands up in a placating gesture. “No problem. Shirt. Take me literally two seconds—“ _fuck, this might have just ruined everything…_

The soldiers snatch his raised forearms, pulling him back roughly. He’s pressed against them both, half of him against Steve, half against Jim and their faces are in the curves of his neck on either side.

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” Jim snarls against his pulse.

“Thank-you for trusting us,” Steve presses tender kisses against the tight tendon.

Tony lets out an embarrassing noise as Steve sucks at his throat and Jim moves down to his shoulder and collarbone. A hand moves around to palm his ass, pulling him against them, another moves up his tight abdomen, tracing over his muscles. Another feathers up his side to trace his ribs and his breath stutters out. Hands are shoving the remains of the tank off his shoulders and down, away. Tony can only gasp at the hands, lips, tongues that seem to be everywhere. A wet swipe to the scars tissue around the reactor finally wrenches a sound out of him, he jerks a little, the sensation so foreign.

Jim’s eyes roll up to check on him, noting the heat in his cheeks.

“S-S’okay, no one’s…” he shakes his head a little and doesn’t finish that thought. It’s not the time or place for that; it’s the time and place for heat and touch and want.

The two soldiers get it, however, and both attack that span of his chest. A metal arm around his waist, a longer one works its way up to grip his shoulder and pull his upper body back, to make him arch into their touch, offering himself up for them.

More moans rumble with the wet sounds of sucking, licking, humming like the two need to explore every inch of the bared skin… Tony braces both hands behind him, head falling back, neck stretched and gives himself over.  It’s a hard moment, to just let himself go and not tense up, not hide under a shirt. He closes his eyes and tries to relax even though things weren’t exactly going according to _plan_ , so to speak (he’s the one with the reputation, right?).

Releasing Tony’s nipple with a little ‘pop,’ Jim leans up to look at the blissful expression and smiles to himself. His free hand winds in Steve’s hair, tugging the blonde away from his exploration, turning his face up for a harsh kiss while still holding Tony around the waist. The engineer watches under half-lidded eyes and his mouth falls open slightly at the sight (one he’ll never get tired of watching) of how utterly perfect they are together, moaning in each other’s mouths while the wet slide of tongue peeks out when their lips part slightly.

When they part, both turn to him but Jim talks to Steve in a low tone, “you should lay ‘im out, Stevie, I wanna see him on his back panting for us.”

Those blue eyes dance and the grin isn’t one Tony can ever remember seeing on Steve’s face before now, it’s full of a different kind of heat than we-just-survived-a-good-fight, adrenalized kind of heat. This smile is ripe with anticipation. The metal arm around him slides away, leaving Steve to pull Tony up against the front of his body, putting them together from chest to knee and they’re kissing again, full of taste and texture and moans and eating one another down. His ass is cradled in those big palms, lifting slightly so the engineer is held against him with that fearsome strength. Steve follows him down to the softness, freeing his hands so he can touch more, can trace around the waistband of his pants before another set of hands has no problem fitting inside, the metal cold against the jut of his hip and a sharp pull, tearing.

Tony arches up when Jim’s mouth comes back to his body, the two stripping the remains of his clothing off, keeping him busy with taste and touch and everything he’s been wanting, _needing_ , and staying the hell away from in the last few months. Steve moves and Jim comes back, sucking on his bottom lip, biting down to make Tony gasp, tongue soothing and sliding between his lips. Steve is doing incredible things to his chest, making the engineer arch on silent command.

Finally, with bearings adjusted, Tony moves one hand up the inside of Jim’s thigh, palming his balls, rolling them around with dexterous fingers and moving up to wrap around his cock, heavy and full. The brunette shudders, full body twitches, when the engineer’s hand feel so much better than in his imagination.

“Jim, sweetheart,” in between thrusts of tongues, he actually says, “you’re going to open me up, aren’t you?”

Drawing away enough to catch his breath, those grey eyes are so beautifully dilated, “long as you don’t—don’t make me blow first, Моя Любовь. God, I don’t want to go yet.”

The grin he gets in return is a genuine one, full of snark, “you can. I’m betting you have one _hell_ of a refractory period, don’t you? Yeah, I know you do. You and Steve both, and I’m going to take care of you two like you read about.” His tongue slides along Jim’s jawline, hand not stopping in full strokes, becoming slicker with pre-cum leaking in the rough palm. Mouth against Jim’s ear, Tony just keeps _talking_.

“Or, you could get up here so I can take you down, _deep_. So I can suck you and lick you and swallow everything you give me, Jim. All of it. When I’m done, when you’re ready to start panting for me again, making those _noises_ I like so much, you can open me wide for Steve, watch him slide inside me, all the way.”

The blonde is looking up from Tony’s waist, shuddering at the suggestion. His teeth graze the jut of the engineer’s hipbone, nipping playfully.

A noise of want is shoved from Jim’s mouth.

“Do you want that, Jim? To fuck my mouth until you can’t take it anymore? That’s why you wanted me on my back, isn’t it? You want to straddle me and let me suck your cock until you scream.”

Bowing his head a little, the soldier pants out, “yesss. Yes, Tony.”

“Me too.  I _want_ to know how good you taste, how hard I can make you come with just my mouth. You’ll do that for me, won’t you? You’re going to give me what I need while Steve watches and waits for his turn. He’s going to be so ready for me once I’m done with you, you know that don’t you?” Jim is nodding frantically. “That’s what I want, what I’ve needed for months. I _want_ you buried in my throat when you come so I don’t miss a drop, so I can suck it all out of you, Jim.”

“Jesus,” Jim pants out hoarsely, “that mouth you got, Tony.”

“Come up here so I can reach you… and Steve, Steve’s going to kiss you and play with you and touch you while I suck you. He’s going to show me _all_ the spots that make you moan for us.  Then you’ll have your turn, to show me what Steve likes, what he _needs_ , and you’ll enjoy it, won’t you? You’ll run your mouth over him, finger him, stroke him while you get me ready for him.”

Muscles tight, Jim is on his knees, crawling up by Tony’s shoulders, and the engineer winds his left arm around the panting soldier’s waist, curling around the grip his hip and pull him in so Tony doesn’t have to strain to reach him. The right hand trails down to Steve’s face, to palm his cheek, rub a thumb over the lower lip, but the blonde fights the hold enough to breathe over Tony’s erection, tongue darting out to lick a stripe up the underside and make the hips in his big hands stutter.

Tony takes Cap’s initiative; eyes trailing up the hard, compact muscle of Jim’s svelte body, he meets the gray gaze when his tongue comes out to play, laving the soft head and shaft with delicate, dexterous care. The soldier’s shoulders curve in with the simulation, a shudder wracking his body, hardening his nipples.

“F-Fuck, Tony…” the flesh hand cups Stark’s neck in a gentle hold, thumb swiping along the moving jaw line, watching those dark eyes fall half-mast, that tongue moves to the base of him, the deft muscle playing and stroking like Tony’s fingers, all style. A half-moan, half gasp is punctuated by the thrusting of Jim’s hips; he waits for it, just tonguing, kissing, getting the feel of Jim, the taste, the texture, listening to broken breath and watching the eyes get hot, staring down at him next to intimate skin.

Tony finally fists his hand in hair at the back of Steve’s head and pulls, the blonde coming off him with a small noise. Those blue eyes are blown wide, the blue almost lost in the pupils; oh. **_Oh_** … _So Cap…?_

Jim has enough breath to chuckle, “figured out—uh, fuck!—his secret, eh?”

Tony’s eyes dart up to Jim’s with his mouth still wrapped around the perfect curved erection and go back down to Steve, pulling harder, tightening his fist to make the blonde’s neck and chest arch, strain. A sinful noise comes from his mouth as he arches, eyes falling half-mast immediately. Tony pulls off to slightly twist his wrist, Steve’s head following.

“Oh…my God,” the words whispered against Jim’s shaft before his tongue comes out again.

“Sometimes,” the brunette huffs, groaning, “he needs to give up control. ‘S good for ‘im. He just _needs_ it, Tony.”

“Right now, this very second, he needs to come up and touch you, anywhere, everywhere. I want to see his hands on you.” The mechanic is pulling Steve up by the hair, making the blonde crawl up his legs, closer to the two of them.

“I can do that,” Steve finally says, his voice positively wrecked and his eyes darkening a little, getting himself back. He groans when his erection brushes Tony’s and leans over the mouth at Jim’s hip, eyes rolling up to look at the other soldier.

As the three intertwine, Tony finally takes Jim in deep mouth, sucking him down to the root.  It’s been, God so long, and he’s rusty at giving a good blow job, but well, some things are like riding a bike, you start to get the hang of it again after you start.  So, he does just that; he takes his time, opening his jaw, hollowing out his cheeks, sucking, getting used to the texture and weight on his tongue, against his cheek, doing that _thing_ with his tongue, finding all the most sensitive spots along the shaft and head to toy with, pulling Jim against him to fuck his mouth, working the muscles in the back of his throat to make it better.

Steve moves to kneel beside Jim, sucking spots on collar bone, down his chest along side Tony’s marks with the brunette’s hips start to stutter.

“Ch-Christ, Tony, I’m gonna—“ he starts to pull back, but the arm still around him pulls him deeper, to bury him at the back of Tony’s throat like the mechanic already promised.

“Let him hear you,” Steve breathes against his ear, toying with Jim’s entrance while the other fingers are rolling, pinching his nipples. “Buck, let him know he’s doing a good job, huh?”

The heat curls up his spine and Steve moves to his neck again and _oh God_ , biting him right fucking there and _Tony_ , that tongue thing right on the shaft and the head of him in his throat makes his heart stutter and his balls draw up. Tony’s eyes roll up to his, soft and hot at the same time, he moans around Jim’s cock in his mouth and that does it. He’s gone, crying out, both hands full, one buried in Tony’s hair, the other holding the side of Steve’s neck, and he’s coming so hard his vision whites out for a few important seconds.

When sight returns, he’s curved over Tony’s head, elbows bracing himself from squashing the poor fella, and Steve is nudging him over on his side with gentle hands, petting his hip and chest. His pulse is still thudding in his ears, body boneless with the afterglow. The best he can do is pant and blink at the two smiling at him with warm eyes.

Tony turns over, leans up in a long stretch of muscle to press gentle, chaste kisses to his hips in a move that is very not what Jim would have expected. It’s almost reverence, not the playboy of reputation, and Jim…he wants to pull Tony against his chest and hold him, reach around and jerk him off so they can lay in a warm pile of satisfaction. He lifts his hand but the mechanic is already moving away, that small, _real_ smile still on his mouth when he looks up the length of Steve’s body to meet blue, blue eyes.

“Next.”

Steve huffs out a laugh but those hands are on his neck, his face, pulling him down again; he gets the hint of Bucky and moans.

“What’s that thing again?” Tony asks between the tangling of their tongues.

“Wh-what thing?” He’s palming the length of spine, the curve of pert ass cheeks, can’t get enough touching skin, of finally having this man bare under his hands. “There’s a thing? Pretty sure it’s a thing that can wait until I’ve got my hands full of you.” He cuts off Tony’s answer with his mouth sucking on the juncture where the neck and shoulder meet, biting down so he can _mark_ that olive skin. He wants Tony to touch that mark later and _remember_ who is in his bed tonight.

Tony gasps, hand wrapping around Steve’s neck to hold him, the other at his waist, pulling their bodies tighter together.

“Ah…yeah, that—that thing,” eyes fluttering, Tony brings a leg up so he can plant his foot, “you know, leverage?”

Steve raises his head enough to arch a brow, but the hip against his moves and he’s thrown on his back, hitting the mattress with an ‘oomph’. Unrepentant, Tony is grinning down at him, straddling Steve’s waist, eyes laughing. “See?! I pay attention!”

He can’t help but laugh at that open expression, the lack of masks and things to hide behind. “I see that,” Steve deadpans, “but—“ he arches his hips, powerful legs wrapping around Tony’s waist, and rolls them over, Steve on top this time. He wastes no time, palming both wrists and pinning them above the mechanic’s head; he adjusts his grip so one hand tightens, holds securely.

“Always have to look for the counter measure, Tony.” Steve leans down to run his tongue over the pulsing vein running along the neck, lingering to use teeth and lips, making more marks.

The body under his twists, bucks, the arms in his grip strain, and the blonde lets him test the strength, fight a little because, well, _Tony_. The man would fight with St. Peter at the Gates and probably still be able to talk his way through.

But it’s okay, the engineer’s arching only makes the friction of their bodies together sweeter, makes him hums again that beating pulse, sucking while he restrains. His hips start moving, slow and easy, rubbing their erections together in the perfect slide of skin.

Of all things he’s imagined, Steve Rogers holding him down, sliding their bodies together like this, is right up there in the top five. His brain short circuits when the wet warmth moves to his chest and starts up with the sucking, licking, biting, mouthing all over again, and Tony can just moan in that ragged voice, try and brace his feet to move his hips in tandem with the blonde on top.

“Fuck, God, Steve, ah…Let me—just let me…” _do **something** for you._

“This is what I want,” the blonde returns as soft breath fans over a hard nipple, “to have you laid out under me, Tony.” His free hand sweeps up over ribs, tracing them, and back down to rub circles on his hips. “You don’t know how long I’ve _wanted_ this, all of it. How long we’ve been waiting on you, watching you,” the heat in his tone makes the mechanic close his eyes, arch more (so he doesn’t have to listen because he’s still set on doing the right thing…isn’t he?). “I want every inch of you under my hands, my _mouth_. I’m going to watch you come apart when I’m inside you, you know. I’ll work every noise outta you, Stark, until you can’t even think about moving.”

With a shuddering breath, Tony angles his head down to look at those blue eyes, “you—God, Steve, you say the nicest things.”

The evil little grin is unrepentant. When the metal hand replaces Steve’s, holding him down, Tony gets why the smile is evil as hell. “I have this to look forward to? I mean, he didn’t even tag you _in_ yet!”

Jim’s face appears over his while Steve is apparently going to take his time…

“Yer just covering up for the fact that you _like_ being held down, Tony.” Jim’s tone is part playful, part edging on heat. “Don’t need to deflect cause I like to do it, you know. Also wanna tie you down, spread open for me some time. Betcha’d like that wouldn’t you? Me taking you while Steve straddles you, gets you to suck him all the way down.”

The. Death. Of. Him.

Warmth around his cock interrupts the monologue, and he loses his control (it’s not something he can remember happening since he was a teenagers). With Jim’s face just inches from his, he yells, body arching, still held so easily. His face is nudged to the side so Jim can have his turn at making a mark, and _God, he is going to die, right here, right now_.

When Jim laughs against his throat, Tony has to turn to see that face creased in genuine mirth; even with Steve’s mouth wrapped around his cock and pleasure tingling over every nerve ending, he has to gasp at the soft expression on Jim’s face, straight out of his dream…

“Jesus, you’re beautiful like that,” the words only hitch a little in Tony’s throat.

The grin widens, “Never pegged you for a sweet-talker like that. Making a fella blush, you know.”

“Let me up and I’ll really make you blush, promise.” He closes in but Jim’s mouth is already open, tongues moving back and forth, Tony’s doing that _thing_ around Jim’s, earning a harsh moan for his efforts.

Both are panting when they part, Jim’s expression just what Tony wants to see, hot and bothered and _anticipating_. “Later, you’re going to take me until you can’t stand it anymore. Gonna like that, being in me?”

His tongue comes out, licking right under Jim’s chin in reply. “I’ll bet you’re so warm and tight, aren’t you James? I bet you’re so perfect when you’re being fucked. Making those _noises_ , God, I’ll slide right inside you, fill you up.”

The shudder he gets in reply is just perfect, but his back arches helplessly when Steve hollows his cheeks and _sucks_. Eyes rolling back, Tony’s breath rushes out.

“Steve, _Steve_ , for fuck’s sake, I’m dying here.”

Jim laughs at him, grabbing the bottle of lube with his free hand, tossing it to the man that pulls off with a wet noise; his mouth is kept busy while the cap is flipped and the first tentative touch to his opening makes him moan, makes him _want_ because he’s so ready for this, completely, no question, wants one of these two inside him, filling him to the brim…

The first finger makes his gasp in Jim’s mouth while Steve moves back and forth, looking for and finding—“FUCK, oh my _God_ , fuck.”

“That right, sweetheart,” Jim hums against his ear while Steve’s mouth goes back to his hips, pressing kisses in the indent, “he always finds the sweet spot, first try. Like he’s got a talent for it, you know? And those long fingers—“ which a second one is inside him now, scissoring to open him up, to get him ready enough—“just feel so damn good inside you. He knows how to make it so good, doesn’t he, Tony?”

“Yes, fuck, yes!” the tips are brushing against the nub inside him over and over, making him pant and try to hold back…

Steve and Bucky exchange a look over the mechanic’s body between them, taking in the expansive of straining muscle, sinewy strength, the beauty of his form in bliss.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, babe?” Jim’s voice is already deep with anticipation.

“Already on the same page,” Steve replies, flipping the top of the bottle open.

“This is gonna be good,” Jim purrs, kissing Tony’s cheek while he maneuvers, straddling Starks waist while still holding those hands to the mattress.

Steve pauses to dump more slick on both hands, leaning in to kiss the base of Bucky’s spine and nip at an ass cheek. The break gives Tony enough to calm down, to breathe and look up at the face hovering over him; when Jim gasps, back arching, mouth opening in an ‘O’ of surprise, he knows what’s happening even when three fingers enter him and he’s making the same noise. Moving over him, Jim’s forehead drops to his shoulder, already semi-hard and rubbing against Tony’s thigh as Steve fingers him open as well.

“God,” Tony turns his face into Jim’s neck, eyes moving just enough to skim over the writhing back to look at the blonde super soldier, eyes hot with what he’s doing, licking his lips with anticipation.  “I’m going to _die_. Jesus, _please_ just let me do something!” He pulls ineffectively at Jim’s hand again, but he made the damn thing so he knows better than to think he’s going to win over it.

“Nope,” the soldier moans out against his neck, arching his hips back against what Steve is doing to him to make him moan like that, “gotta suffer, Tony, for making us wait like this.”

A hard thrust inside him makes him do the same, try to move his own hips closer toward Steve so he _can just keep doing **that thing**_ , that thing that feels so good…

Jim is moaning into his neck and he’s not any better when Steve finally pulls out of them both and gives a jarring slap to Jim’s ass. “All right fellas,” his voice deep, spreading Tony’s thighs so he can crawl between them, “I’m a man in _need_.”

He presses kisses against Bucky’s spine as he crawls up and all Tony can think of, watching them, is, “thank _fuck_.” His legs wrap around Steve’s waist as that hand fists his hard cock, stands him up, and _oh shit_ , his brain is short circuiting as Jim leans up, that evil smile on his face as he finally releases Tony’s hands to raise up on his knees and let Steve nudge Tony at his entrance while one of his shaky knees is lifted over Steve’s shoulder and that blunt tip is nudging at his own.

“Oh my God, are—“ he wheezes, but doesn’t get the chance as the two time their moves _perfectly_ in sync.

Jim sinks down as Steve buries himself in to the root; all three of them are yelling, panting, arching, and writhing with the sensations, with the sensuality of it all…

Steve lays his forehead on Bucky’s back, giving Tony time to adjust to the intrusion, one hand gently rubbing the thigh against his chest while massaging the side of Bucky’s throat with the other.

“How does he feel babe?” Jim’s hand comes back, threads through Steve’s hair to pull him up and in for a kiss while he also adjusts to the cock filling him up so sweetly.

“He’s so tight,” Steve whispers against Bucky’s lips, “he’s so warm, so perfect, just like you…” tongues dance and Steve gives just a little twitch of his hips to see if Tony’s ready, “I can’t wait to watch you inside him, taking him.”

“You two are going to be the death of me,” the mechanic moans and _he_ the connection point, finally moves his hips in tight little circles, throwing back his head when the motion moves Steve’s length inside him while moving his own in a gentle slide inside Jim.

The two soldiers are in his thrall, Steve moaning against Bucky’s neck, and Jim just panting, thighs trembling a little, but now Tony Stark has a _mission_ , he’s going to make them both keen; he’s going to make them both spill because of him and braces his other foot to _move_.

Hands find purchase on Jim’s carved hips, his other leg over Steve’s shoulder pulling him as close as possible with the position, driving himself against them both, working them as hard as he works himself like this. Jim finally collapses forward a little, bracing both hands on Tony’s abdomen, eyes blown wide and helps the rhythm by moving his hips in tune. He can see Steve again, the blonde just as wrecked, moving his hips along with Jim’s driving closer and closer to release, reaching down to fondle Tony’s balls with his free hand. He presses gentle kisses to the knee by his face.

And the rhythm is driving, moving forward, so intense and incredible and everything they need it to be. The need of their bodies takes over so the three are writhing, moaning creatures, watching each other, touching each other, moving in a beautiful sync of muscles and grace. Jim is kissing him and then Steve and Tony watches his abdomen dance with meeting his thrusts, to drive Tony deeper and deeper into his body. Steve’s hand over Jim’s front, flicking his hard nipples while biting the juncture where the neck and shoulder meet, eyes peering over the brunette to watch Tony’s blissed out expression and give him a series of driving thrusts that hit his spot hard and fast.

“Almost,” Jim moans finally, a hand full of Steve’s hair as he rears back to yell.

“Me too, God, Tony, we’re close.” Steve is panting hard.

The engineer just nods and speeds up, giving them permission to drive themselves to the brink, holding harder to Jim’s hips, hoping to leave bruises. Steve’s arm snakes around to fist Jim in one hand, cheeks burning red as he moans when Tony clenches down on him.

Jim sets off the chain reaction, almost screaming when he comes all over Steve’s hand, clenching down hard on Tony, who does his level best to fuck him through the orgasm; but, the tightness around the sensitive head of his dick along with the hand fondling his balls has him crying out while Steve keeps pounding him from behind Jim, pushing Jim over and hefting his leg higher to get even _deeper_ before he lets go as well.

With Jim laying on his chest, against the arc reactor, panting in his arms, Tony can see Steve’s beautiful face contort into bliss when the warmth floods into him and those blue eyes are completely blown. It’s a look forever burned into his memory…

Steve finally drops his leg and moves to shakily fall down on his right side while Jim gives a groan and rolls to his left; the three of them trying to get their breathing under control, hearts to slow down, and the two nudge over on their sides enough to press closer to him, Jim’s face in his neck and Steve’s cheek on his shoulder. It’s…so utterly perfect he can’t even—this, this is the stuff of dreams.

“Yup. Calling this hashtag winning.” He’s able to get out, arms pulling both soldiers against him, _his just in this moment_ …

Steve puffs out a grunt, “still don’t get the reference, Tony.”

“Ditto,” Jim grunts against his neck.

And, feeling like he’s got everything he could ever need right here, Tony laughs and pulls them closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, real talk: I was not going to ever put this in the story. #Truth. I was going to do a tasteful fade away, come back in the next morning, and go from there. Why? I cannot tell you how many times I have been torn down for this kind of content. Once was in middle school, not lying (back when I was writing Power Rangers fics with only hugging and kissing of hetero couples and a teacher I thought I could trust totally told an entire classroom of twelve year olds that my writing 'was highly pornographic.' Take a minute. Twelve-year olds. Yeah.)   
> But, here's what I've come to in life, so all you writers out there can not EVER feel ashamed or crazy about your content when some inevitable jerk critics you for fun, not to help you: write for YOU. Write because you like going back to read your own work. Write like you bleed it. 
> 
> Do. That. Shit.   
> Send me your link and I will read you stuff and tell you what I like about it. Go on. Do it.  
> Okay *deep breath* rant over, shaking off the past. Feel free to tell me what you think and remember to show your authors your love.


	36. The Breaking Point II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The space is cold and empty...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. It's Tony so we have to have some angst with our breakfast.

He snuffles and reaches out without bothering to open his eyes.

The space is cold and empty.

He jerks awake with a sick twist in his chest and sits up in bed with the sheet already clenched in his fists. Alone. They’d…

Tony takes a few moments to assess the situation. He’s sore from penetration, check; looking down at his chest, hips, and legs, he’s got hickeys, bite marks, and some epic bruises on his thighs, biceps, and shoulders, check. Yup. He’d had sex with them last night and there was no way a dream (fantasy, what have you) would just materialize in the real world in the form of, ‘holy shit, I forgot how sore that could make me when I get in a hurry.’ So, logical conclusion.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y?”

“Thirty-seven minutes ago, boss,” and the AI’s tone genuinely seems sorry. Well, he didn’t think he’d ever see the day a computer would feel bad for him. Things must be at that level of suck. “The Captain and Sergeant left your floor and are currently out of the Tower. It is seven oh-seven am. Your flight will leave in approximately two hours, twenty-three minutes.”

He throws the sheet off and stands gingerly, “get the shower started, F.R.I.D.A.Y

As he is wont, Tony moves the next crisis without a net; he doesn’t hold back but keeps moving forward as Starks have iron in their bones. These things pass through his mind as he scrubs his body in the shower, forcing himself not to focus on the soreness, the markings, the tingling skin that still _felt_ touch from last night. If he let himself think about it, he might have a goddamn mental breakdown (finally) and then Pepper would gloat (like she needed more of an excuse). Nope, he did the right thing and offered just the night, nothing else. This is what he’d bargained for so no harm, no foul. Right?

He dries off, dresses in a dark Armani with red silk underneath, and picks up the suitcase he’d packed yesterday for the trip. Double-check the mirror and notice the twin marks higher up on his neck than he’d normally like to show off for the image or the press. There’s a few more that are closer to the base of his throat. With a sigh, he opens a draw under the sink and pulls out a little tube of concealer Pepper got him once and gingerly dabs the marks until both are much less noticeable. It was time to get moving but Tony finds himself staring at himself in the mirror, staring at the concealed marks. He just tries to _breathe_ and pretend there is no pain. _No pain_.

“Boss?”

 _Blink_. “Yeah, babe?”

“Happy Hogan is in the Tower to collect you; he is riding up to the Communal Floor.”

“Great, saved by Happy—“ he moves with purpose now, “which I have no _idea_ why the Head of Security is here to give me a ride since he has other stuff to do,” pick up the suitcase, pull on his shades (that Jim thinks are stupid but Steve likes), and smooth his tie down again, “like keeping my CEO a happy camper so SI doesn’t, gee I don’t know, sink in the sea or something.” He winces at the reference. Thor seems to be doing better but still not a reference he wants to toss around.

He keeps going right into the elevator, “it’s not like I don’t have _plenty_ of cars here and a suit I can take just about anywhere but a metal detector—“

The elevator glides to a stop without his command and Tony pauses in his comforting monologue.

“Boss…” F.R.I.D.A.Y begins, “Mr. Stark,”

“Are we being invaded again?” He asks flatly, of course it would happen just as he was ready to get out of the country.

“No, sir. No emergencies, but…are you all right, boss? Really all right?”

 _Okay_ , he thinks with a little jolt, _time to dismantle her. This is creepier than it has a right to be. J.J. can handle Iron Man and the Tower._

“It’s not my place to ask, boss, but you programmed me to make certain your health is in the upmost protocol. Preliminary scans indicate an injury.”

His brows furrow. “Injury?”

“Boss, you’re favoring one side.”

 _Shit_. “Believe me, babe. It’s perfectly fine.”

“…should I restrict the Captain and Sergeant’s access to your floor for a while?”

He sucks in a breath and rubs the bridge of his nose, “while I’m gone, yes. Restrict _all_ access to my floor and the workshop until I get back. No one in or out. I’ll…figure it out from there.” He thinks a second, “F.R.I.D.A.Y?”

“Boss?”

“Do not, _and I mean do not_ tell anyone about this ‘injury,’ not even Pepper or Rhoadey. That’s a direct order, Code 74165 Alpha Daddy-1.”

The elevator starts moving again and Tony Stark forces a smirk, today’s mask, back on his face. He has no idea how brittle it looks, probably about as brittle as he feels. _Deep breath, Stark, and stop that shit right now; you knew how this was going to go from the start_.

And, he did. He knew they’d be the death of him, but he should feel awesome about how things panned out because **he** was doing the right thing by them.

 

Making sure he’s not noticeably limping, but taking on an easy stride, Tony gives a wave to the four others awake at this hour and makes his way to the coffee pot before setting his suitcase down. Happy is one of the four, looking over the morning paper with a cup of coffee by his right hand.

“Morning all.”

The quiet chorus greets him as he eases down with his cup sighing with content only good coffee can give him.

Clint pushes over a plate of donuts Happy must have picked up on the way. With his mouth partially full, “forgot you were going out of the States for a few days. Got everything?”  The Hawk never misses a thing, and he’s eyeing the regular old suitcase with an arched brow.

Tony chooses the basic glazed and nods, “yup. Pepper made sure I’ve got all the whatnots. Not a huge deal. Shouldn’t be as exciting as here.”

“You taking the _other_ suitcase though, right?” He prods.

 _He hadn’t even thought…_ “Nope,” popping the ‘p,’ Tony downs the donut with the last swallow of coffee, “don’t need it. You guys are good with all the heavy hitters still here.” He stands to put his cup in the sink, missing (or ignoring) Clint and Natasha’s shared look.  _Shit, he should have lied, said the other one was already in the car or on the plane._

“Make us feel better,” Bruce requests from Natasha’s other side, “and take it for ‘just in case’ something comes after you.”

“Like what?” The patented Stark smirk comes out.

The other Avengers give him their own version of ‘the look’ adapted from Cap himself, and then the chain reaction:

“International terrorists.”

“The Crimson Dynamo.”

“Ginormous flying somethings.”

“AIM goonies.”

“Zeke Stane.”

“Aliens.”

“Hydra morons.”

“Random snipers.”

“Hordes of your ex-girlfriends.”

“Squid monsters. What? He’ll be close enough _to the sea_.”

“I’m good, I’m good,” he waves an unconcerned hand, “if I need a rescue, I’ll call for you to come save me.” The joke is weak, but Tony already has his suitcase in hand, and Happy starts, jumping up to follow with his mug still in hand and leaves the paper on the table. Right now, he needs to be away from everyone, to get some space between the Tower, the team, and those two; he gets his chi or chakras or whatever aligned and comes back perfectly _fine._ “See you guys in a few days,” he says as the elevator closes on them.

Nat blinks at the door, her brow furrows, and Bruce sits down beside her and his expression is quite…upset. His fist is on the bar beside him, absently clenching and unclenching while he stares the elevator door down. Very gently, Nat’s hand comes up to touch the fist, just her fingers tracing over the underside of his wrist, grounding him. He sucks in a deep breath, a predatory look flashing in his eyes. The expression on Tony’s face before those doors closed made him undeniably _pissed off_ , and that just made the other guy suspicious and likewise _pissed off_. Tony looked hurt, and a little fragile just for that instant when he thought the doors were closed enough that no one would _see_.

Bruce has a feeling someone is going to get their asses handed to him.

**

The two are laughing when they finally make it back to the lobby of Stark Tower, Jim is carrying a white box filled with pastries and Steve has four coffees in a cup holder (two are for Tony) when they come to the elevator; the two are grinning like idiots in their respective ‘disguises’ (“The glasses are really worthless, Stevie.” “Eh, Nat’s suggestion.” “Right, keep wearing ‘em so she doesn’t eviscerate ya.” “Why do you think I still _have_ them?”), but oddly enough, they actually seem to work. Except for that time in Brooklyn, no one has called them on being Captain America or the Winter Soldier in random donut shops, pizza joints, bars, or the occasional arcade. Their disguises must be getting better.

Once the elevator doors slide closed on them, Jim leans in over the coffee, thumb on Steve’s chin to tilt his face down. The kiss is sweet, chaste, and one of those stupid _tender_ things he does now that makes Steve’s eyes go all soft and his expression turn goofy.

“Hey F.R.I.D.A.Y?” Jim looks fondly at the ceiling for a second before back at the big guy beside him, “Tony’s floor. We’ve got breakfast.” His free hand and Steve’s automatically find one another.

“I am unable to comply, Sergeant Barnes. Mr. Stark’s floor is currently on lock-down.” The chilly, mechanical tone makes both men start and slowly look up.

“Lock-down?” Steve blinks and turns into the Captain, “what’s happened in the last hour?” A plethora of possibilities flash in a slideshow of hurt Tony, decimated teams, and God-knew how many enemies slowly taking over the Tower. “Mr. Stark has left the Tower, Captain Rogers. His protocols are in place. Please choose a secondary destination.” The two just gape at the ceiling then at one another.

“Where’s he gone?” Jim asks at the same time Steve says, “Communal floor.”

The elevator moves abruptly, quickly, jarring them both to almost fall over. As is, Steve stumbles into Jim without actually spilling any of the coffee on either of them.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, what’s going on?” Steve tries again, using his Captain voice.

The elevator stops with a jerk, making them stumble again. The door open abruptly, “Communal floor as requested, Captain Rogers.” Nothing else.

The two soldiers step out, half expecting to doors to close on them. The gathering at the table is sparse, but all eyes are on them when they walk in and those looks aren’t…friendly. Jim is already on his phone, pulling out a chair without noticing Nat’s face go blank and Bruce’s spine straighten from where he is making tea at the stove. The only thing that moves on Clint is his eyes, tracking the two like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to make the shot…

“All right, where’s Tony?” Steve sets the coffee down

Bruce, the guy that oozes zen when he’s not a green and twelve feet tall or more, straightens from the counter and pointedly rolls his shoulders, sucks in a deep breath. He leaves his tea at the counter and moves with an uncharacteristic animalistic grace, gets right up in their faces, giving the two no room to even look away. It’s a very Hulk action.

“I have _no idea_ what happened,” Bruce is obviously straining himself to maintain control, “or what you two did, and I don’t want any details. What _I know_ , however, is that you two **will** **fix it**.” Jim is left staring into green eyes, green eyes that follow every tick in his face. That gaze turns to Steve and a growl trickling from somewhere deep in the doctor’s chest.

Jim, however, just lets out a breath. “Bruce,” he interrupts a little helplessly, “we went to get him breakfast.” He opens the white box to show apple fritters that are Tony’s favorite. The growling doesn’t let up.

Natasha gives the box a careful look and that look turns to them, assessing. After a tense moment, she takes up her mug and carelessly throws out, “Tony’s on his way to the airport.” She makes a motion that gets Bruce to move back to his tea, growl slacking off.

“I completely forgot,” Steve says to himself, epiphany hitting, “he’s got those SI meet and greets out of the States. Damn. Dammit.”

“He even brought it up at the team meeting,” Clint reminds helpfully, gesturing to the oversized magnetic calendar on the fridge that is, honestly, a mess of sloppy handwriting (Sam), emoticons (Clint), words of the day (Wanda), random equations (Vision, Bruce, and Tony), scheduled meetings and events (Pepper), various doodles of the team (Steve), groceries for the next person to go out (Bruce), possible recipes (Rhodey), and random quotes (Jim). Right there, circled in red marker (Pepper again) is Tony’s reminder of his flight time. The two soldiers glance at it and at one another.

“And,” Clint’s head swings to them both, “he didn’t take a suit.”

“ _What_ now?!” Jim doesn’t waste a second for an answer; he is already on his feet, grabbing the box and holding out his free hand. Steve takes it without thinking, coffees in the other; the two are off on a mission. This time, the elevator opens before they reach it, but both hesitate before stepping in and disappearing.

Natasha bites her lip after the elevator door slides closed then takes a dainty sip of coffee.

“Are-are we just going to ignore that?” Clint asks the other two, looking around. “I mean—“

“Ignore what?” Nat asks, glancing at him with an arched brow. Her expression is carefully blank.

Bruce takes his seat with his tea, he looks at Clint with what is now a somewhat calmer expression. “Did something happen?”

Clint holds up both hands, “got it. See no evil, hear no evil, do no evil.”

“People deserve privacy to work out their issues,” Nat counters, “we can give them that, at least.”

Clint seems to mull over that, “they’re not coming back. Man, _I_ would have totally gone to Scotland for a pleasure trip.”

“Yup, with all three gone, I’m in charge.” She opens her mouth when Bruce brings up a piece of donut for her.

“Whaaaat? No fair. I’ll arm wrestle you for it.”

Her grin is pure evil, “You’re so on, Barton.” And yes, he’s apparently forgotten about that time in Limburg…

 

Meanwhile, the two super soldiers clench hands in concern.

“We in no way meant to hurt him, F.R.I.D.A.Y,” Steve says immediately, “we _care_ about Tony.”

“We forgot about him leaving this morning, but that don’t mean we’re in the department of using people,” Jim seconds in an angry tone. Getting the cold shoulder from a computer brassed him right off, wasting time when they needed to be getting to the airport and Stark’s private plane.

“Lower level parking garage,” F.R.I.D.A.Y replies instead.

The two race out, glancing at the cars set aside for the Avengers to use, but Steve tugs Bucky to his motorcycle instead and hands him a helmet. Coffee was going to get cold in the dual side holders and the pastries smashed in the side bags, but neither of them cared as Steve revved the engine and Jim wrapped both arms around his middle. He pulls out like a bat out of hell, Jim clinging to him without bitching even once as Steve opens her up and _drives_.

“What time is his plane supposed take off?” Jim yells over Steve’s shoulder.

 “About forty-five minutes. Hope it didn’t leave early.”

 “Well, then I’d say step on it, punk. Let’s make sure we give him a send-off!”

 Steve laughs a little as he’s weaving around cars like a bullet, balancing the bike easily even with Bucky on the back shouting and laughing like a fool.

**

“Sooo? What’s the hold up?” He looks over the top of the shades, sipping some spectacularly _terrible_ coffee (seriously, didn’t he make sure epic coffee was stocked on a regular? Who just goes and picks up Folgers or something for his plane?) and successfully ignoring the paperwork spread on the flight table in front of him. He’s a completely different headspace to concentrate. Once they hit the half-way point over the Atlantic, he might be able to get his head in the game…

 “We’re being blocked, Mr. Stark,” the stewardess gives an apologetic smile, “I’m afraid someone’s made it on the tarmac.”

His brows rose, a stab of _oh shit_ smacking him in the chest. “Someone’s running around on the runway? Like, other than the guys that _are supposed to be_? Why didn’t you say something earlier? You keep up with Facebook, right? You know I’m Iron Man? Guy with a lot of enemies?” He’s already standing, moving to the cock pit, but the realization hits: he has no suit. Shit, he doesn’t have a suit. 

Oh well, fuck it, if someone was after him, he’d fight his way through regardless, mind already working on how to get the flight crew out of the plane without casualties. He’d get an eye on the situation and send the pilots with the stewardesses out of whatever Emergency Exits are on the opposite side, he’d get out and draw fire if it might be a guy like Vanko or something. He’d have a plan, so it was fine. As long as his people got **out**.

With a deep breath, Tony is in the pilot’s cabin, ready to start breaking out silverware when he catches the sight of…

“What the hell—?” He leans over the console to get a better look, make sure he’s not seeing things.

It’s…Steve’s Flathead resting on its kickstand. Right there is the Vet decal (a joke, sort of). It’s _Steve’s Flathead_.

Holy shit, _it’s Steve’s Flathead blocking his plane from leaving_.

“Mr. Stark,” the pilot stands, “sir, we need you to get to the back of the plane. Now. We have no idea who these men are or what they want, but you could be—“

 _Men?_ Tony is already spinning on his heel; two of the stewardesses are by the main door of the aircraft, listening to the obvious pounding that resembles a knock.

“Get back, sir—“ one requests with hands out, generally concerned for his welfare.

“It’s not terrorists or other evil bad guys that wanna kill me,” he soothes while straightening his tie, “open the hatch and let them in. They’re not going to leave until you do and I totally forgot to change the oil on his motorcycle. Damn. Oh well, I’ll put it on the To-Do list when I get back. He never _thinks_ to you know because, well, he just throws motorcycles at whatever’s blocking truth, justice, and the American way, so why _bother_ , right? But this one he actually keeps so…”  

But, he’s babbling just to try combating the butterflies in the pit of his stomach and wondering _what the hell they’re doing here_ while the two unlock the hatch and pull it back. One-night stands aren’t supposed to come _after_ you when the fun’s all said and done; they should be back in their own room in the Tower, getting ready for their day and… Then, the hatch opens up and he’s looking at Jim’s face right by his waist, boosted up on Steve’s shoulders so he can reach the main door to knock. He’s holding a battered white box and a shit-eating grin. Below him, Steve is looking up with those blue eyes, coffee in one hand while he effortlessly holds Jim on his shoulders.

“Geeze, guy can’t even wait until we bring him breakfast _and_ coffee from that place he likes,” is the first thing Jim says, holding out his free hand to Tony. “Do you even _know_ how long the line was?”

Stupidly, Tony automatically takes his hand and pulls him to step up into the plane easily while Steve makes sure he balances and doesn’t fall (because _super_ , right?). The soldier smiles that crooked smile down at him which is totally why he lets Jim take his arm and move him slightly to the back so Steve can leap up as well, somehow not spilling the coffee on the vault up. Skill. _Already knew that from the way he…_ Tony stops that train of thought immediately before he starts, well, anything.

His brows furrow while Steve introduces himself and Jim to the stewardesses and pilots that have come to the front in case of whatever (all of whom are seriously _swooning_ over the two super soldiers, and…he can’t blame them, can’t even) and hands the coffee off to the stewardess. Of course he and Sergeant Barnes stopped to get Mr. Stark his favorite coffee, and asks if she can put them in mugs and maybe warm them up, pointing out which ones are Tony’s since he likes that hazelnut stuff in his. Jim hands over the box and asks for the same thing, to warm up whatever is in there. The two, still so obviously wavering between _wowed_ and _flustered_ just knowing Captain America and the Winter Soldier are on the plane, hurry to do as he asks, smiling dreamily at two.

Once they make for the back, however, Jim and Steve’s eyes are all for Tony Stark, who is still staring at them curiously and just a few seconds away from the _what the hell are you doing holding up my plane_ spiel.

That train of thought is derailed when Jim’s hand come up to gently move over Tony’s throat, thumb resting on the covered mark at the base. His head tilts to the side slightly, regarding Tony with an expression that is very out-of-place on an airplane when he’s about to leave the country.

“We forgot,” Steve starts apologetically, “about your meetings.” He leans down enough to kiss Tony’s forehead quickly before the stewardesses come back, “but, good morning, Tony.” His eyes are glowing down at the engineer, who is, again, staring wide-eyed behind his shades.  Jim leans in, pressing his mouth to Tony’s cheek, hand giving his neck a gentle squeeze.

 _The death of me_ … “You didn’t have to come all the way down here,” he covers his surprise the only way he knows how, “they make these things that are really cool, phones? Have you heard of them? I mean, you can touch a button and just like _magic_ , they connect you to—“

“Shaddup,” Jim grins at him, “we wanted to be there when you woke up this morning. Since we couldn’t be, well, here we are.”

 _Shit, this is not going according to plan._ But, he can’t be mad at them, can he? “Aw, wouldn’t have pegged you two for saps.” Tony smirks and uses his terrible attempt at their Brooklyn accent, but his cheeks still feel warm. “Blocking the plane was a nice touch, though.” He moves to his seat and shuffles the papers so he can put the table up and sit, gesturing to the two seats in front of him. With some space between their bodies, he can put on the business man persona, unbuttoning the middle button of his jacket so he can sit back in his seat and regard them from behind his glasses.

“Going to Scotland, right?” Steve’s brow arches.

The fangirl stewardess return with a tray and hand out coffee; just the smell is heavenly. He thankfully clutches the mug in both hands like a lifeline. Strange, the only one that knew about his hazelnut thing was Pepper.

“Yup. Couple of days’ worth or smoozing, meetings, reviewing the ad campaigns there. Nothing strenuous.” He blinks at them, sipping his coffee. _This is what life’s all about: good coffee, good…_

“No suit?” Steve asks carefully.

 _Gulp_. “Nah, I won’t be gone more than a week.” He’s overly casual since he doesn’t want to admit he’d been…upset and hadn’t even thought of the briefcase until too late.

“The last time you went off on SI business without one, you got lifted by Hydra,” Jim observes calmly, but the reproach is in his voice.

Tony just shrugs, “risks of being a billionaire superhero, I guess.  Don’t worry. Plenty of security detail.”

Instead, the two share this weird eye thing where their eyes slide to look at each other without moving their heads; it’s cute, really, in a sort of ‘old married couple’ kind of way. Endearing. Tony just gives them his best _relax, it’s fine_ , expression with a small smile, making sure he’s looking at **them** (like they hadn’t spent the previous night in a detailed study of each other’s bodies and pleasures, taking care of needs and wants) while he talks.

Steve regards him carefully while taking a sip of his own brew, “a week? Didn’t know SI has a division in Dublin.”

Tony’s grin is real this time, “that’s the _point_ , Cap. The set-up. Paperwork but a lot of people-to-people interaction to branch out.”

Jim blinks at him, “a week? That isn’t alota time, Tony.”

“This isn’t R&D, not even close. Just a manufacturing plant for the time being, few offices. It’s fabrication for Stark Tech, just to make all that shipping oversea crap go the way of the dinosaur.”

“Ah,” Jim replies with a little too much ease, “and you didn’t think it would be wise to bring a suit with ya?”

“Not necessary, like I said. I have a great security detail,” but his mind flashes at once to the four soldiers that were in that SUV in Afghanistan… The metal door in his mind slams down on that thought while the two soldier are staring at him. His Stark-proof smile is back in place.

Too bad Steve and Jim know him better than that.

Jim’s grey eyes narrow and Steve is staring at him with that _look_ , the ‘I’m planning another route’ look.

“I’ll be back in a minute.”  He stands up, putting his cup down and going back to talk to the stewardesses and pilots by the kitchen. From what Tony can see (and he’s looking around the rows of chairs to watch), all of them are already fawning over him. They’re nodding at him emphatically. Of course they’ll do whatever Captain America asks.

Tony looks back to Jim with a furrow between his brows, but the brunette is just grinning into his mug, winking at Tony before taking another sip.

Without a word, Steve walks to the open hatch and just jumps out. The belly of the plane gives a groan and the Flathead’s engine roars to life.

“Oh,” Tony blinks.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’  Sure yer a genius?”

“I have, like, four doctorates!...Wait, maybe five?”

“Uh-hu, any of ‘em in common sense, Dr. Stark?”

“Rude. I’ll ask next time I’m at NYU, though, since common sense isn’t a requirement at MIT. I mean, if you really want me to get one in—“

“Yer too easy sometimes, you know that?” A hand waves in Tony’s general direction, “All this just because you didn’t want us to know you were upset. Like we’d miss that or something.”

Tony’s jaw snaps shut and his expression smooths out, he takes on the mask. “I wouldn’t have had any reason to be upset, with either or you,” he gives a simply shrug, no smirk, no smile but factual. Jim blinks at him. Tony holds the gaze while sipping his coffee.

“Tony—“

“Already discussed,” Stark waves a hand, “I’m going to do the right thing by you and Cap, remember?” _It’s just sex, leave the heart out of it_.

Jim’s brows furrow and it’s not an answer he cares to hear, but it’s the only one Tony’s going to give him.

Both just drink their coffee while the plane’s underbelly closes and Steve reappears through the door, thanking the stewardesses with his Captain America smile before resuming his seat.  The two re-close the hatch and make a quick run through of the pre-flight details. Before they knew it, the engines come on line and the plane finally starts moving to taxy down the runway. Pastries are warm when brought to them and the air relaxes.

Oddly, it makes Tony Stark feel strangely taken care of to know they were coming along. _Maybe they’ve just never been to Scotland?_ His mind automatically reasons in an attempts to protect himself, but still, something in him warms.

**

Johnathan Bowers, distracted with the detail of his meeting _the_ Mr. Tony Stark, gives the two young men sitting outside the boardroom a cursory look before he goes inside. _Yanks_. One of them with thick glasses is reading a World War II novel and obviously making notes while the other is playing some hand held device with his tongue stuck out and eyes all for the screen. When he steps toward the door, both young men pause to give him a good once-over, and not a friendly one. The look on the brunette’s face is actually a little…frightening, like he’s looking for the vulnerable parts. Johnathan Bower’s hand tightens on the handle of his briefcase and he gives the two a tight smile, the flesh between his shoulders crawling as their gazes track his every move when he opens the door.

It’s a relief to close the door on them. Once he takes his seat, he dismissed them from mind and greets Mr. Stark.

**

He grunts, surfacing to consciousness enough to know he’s…warm. By now the sheets are normally cold, tangled around his legs and hips so he has to fight to roll over, and it usually lends to his nightmares. Not now, now he’s very warm.  It’s…so _nice_ , warmth pressing again him so the arc in his chest isn’t something frigid that wakes him abruptly; more soothing warm at his back and down to his ass and legs. Solid and soft pressing against the back of him.  Rather, than jerking away, he swims up from layers of sleep to snuggle further into the mattress and pillow, to tighten his arm around the hip in front of him, wanting to hold on to something that feels so perfect right in that spot. At his back, a breath of warm air drifts over his neck and a nose presses there, a chest fluttering against him as it lifts in a satisfied sigh. Still hazy, still ready to drift back, Tony scoots his shoulders back a little so a forehead can press against the nape of his neck and hums in happiness when it does.

 _Perfect_ , his minds lazes at him, _this is how it should be_. Tony’s brows furrow but he still doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to. Reality is out there if he opens his eyes and right here, right now, he can just have so much. In this space, he can just be concerned with warmth and having and hands on hips and noses at his neck and kisses pressed to his chin and all of that. His mind can just take a hike until later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So why's Tony always gotta be difficult? I don't know, he is what he is. SO, I need a little bit of time for my other fic because, well, reasons. Writing a DC fic is hard work, people! Lol, and I need more time for a maybe a few more chappies here because, well, can I really trust these guys to eventually work it out themselves?! (Maybe with Nat's help).


	37. Breaking Point Bonus Drabble: Kilts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this just had to be.

Tony sips the cool water and relaxes further into the couch; he sighs as the tension rolls out of his shoulders and back. SI business made him more stressed than superhero business, go figure. After a long day of meetings and negotiations, all he wanted to do was take the suit out for a spin, just to _fly_ , have those moments of freedom in a rush of wind and G’s passing by him. Sadly, he left the suit back in New York, so that wasn’t going to happen. On the bright side, what he had in its place was even better…

“When I said I wanted culture, this wasn’t exactly what I meant,” stepping out of the bathroom, one Steven Grant Rogers is bare from the waste up and a becoming flush spread up his corded neck to his cheeks, fans out over his pectorals. His arms crossed over his chest made the picture even sweeter; Cap’s flush darkens even _more_ as Tony’s eyes skimmed down his body with obvious heat, carnal knowledge and deliberation, the thoughts dirty and hot playing over the slightly evil smirk. Steve’s chest lifts in a hard intake of breath as Tony gently whistled in appreciation.

The kilt, a green, gold, and white plaid, emphasizes his trim waist and flares down to just above his knees, showing the tantalizing curve of calves that arch down to his bare feet. It was perfect, absolutely the only thing Steve should wear…ever. Tony’s eyes take another (a third, a fourth) look while he appreciates the muscle and grace of the blonde in front of him.

“I dunno, it’s kinda comfortable,” coming from behind him, James Barnes similarly bares his sculpted upper body. His shoulder nudges Steve’s while he grins at Tony, “well? Whadda ya think, doll face? This the new me or what?” And _dammit_ , Jim lets his hair hang down on his shoulders and down his back in the way Tony absolutely _loves_ , especially when the man is lying on his back in Tony’s bed with the length fanning around him…

 _I’m a bad, bad man_ is all he can think looking at the two beautiful men in traditional wear, their bodies are probably still warm and relaxed from the recent shower while Tony was out wheeling and dealing. There’s still a few drops on Steve’s shoulders, his hair that spiky sensual; Jim still pink from a scrubbing, mouth red and kiss bitten. These two, just so innocently unaware of how attractive they are, how utterly magnetic, just goes straight to his cock. It makes him, Tony Stark, use his substantial brain power to create scenarios to make them both acquiesce; he should start a file on his ghost drive dedicated to super-soldier sex. It was be a fucking _terabyte_.

Clearing his throat, their gazes come right to him as he stands and pretends to scrutinize the clothing with a bland expression.

“Well, you know what they say, boys. When in Rome…Well, when in _Scotland_  since we’re actually in Scotland.” He moves even closer, stepping in the space between the two to look up at their face with his normal grin, wrapping and arm around both waists to ease them back against the wall discreetly. “And kilts are _the_ _thing_ here, so why not try it? We can do other culture tonight after dinner. Promise.”

Steve and Jim are backed against the wall, looking at him curiously while his hands rub soothingly up their sides, skimming his calloused fingers over soft skin.

“And, just a little fun fact of the day boys, this article of clothing is absolutely awesome, just greatest thing ever, for one specific reason.” His grin turns impish as the two exchange a glance at him.

“I’ll bite,” Jim heckles, “what’s the catch to ‘em?”

“Oh sweetheart, accessibility, of course.”

The light dawns in Steve’s eyes just before Tony drop to his knees and lifts Jim’s kilt enough to duck his head under and _hallelujah_ , he’s not wearing anything underneath.

Really, the powers that be are **with him** on this.

His mouth skims a thigh and he barely hears, “oh. Oh!” before his mouth is moving over Jim’s half-hard erection, tongue out to roll over the soft underside and up to lathe the head. Jim’s knees give a twitch, lightly trembling. Tony’s hand moves to Steve’s powerful thigh, already flexing, the muscle jumping under his palm as he moves up, up, up… Also not wearing briefs.

 _This_ is winning.


	38. Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Steve is just hanging like a piece of dead meat with blood matting his blonde hair...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my peeps on "Fracture" clamoring for my head, but I did manage to get this little thing done ;)

He’s screaming obscenities, pulling at his arm so hard he’s shocked he’s not wrenching the damn thing out of the socket. The metal one is gone, throwing off his balance immensely because he’s spent more time with that damn thing on the side of his body than without it, but he can’t focus on all that right now because _Steve is right there_ and he can’t get loose from the bindings to get to him; he can’t get free of the **fucking chair**. The second that sat him down in it again, the programming tried to take hold, tried to keep him from fighting it all.

Fuck. That. Shit.

There’s more bindings on it than the last time he burned the damn thing to the fucking ground; someone learned, and he’s going to break himself apart trying to get free.  Whatever, whoever made them had the same play for Captain America; from what he can see, the metal chains and cuffs are triple reinforced, holding the Cap hostage against the dark wall of their prison. And he can see the blood staining the arms of his suit under the manacles, he can see the blood leaking through the torn armor, the Kevlar jagged ( _Tony’s going to be **pissed**_ ), he can see the way Steve is just hanging like a piece of dead meat with blood matting his blonde hair, not even stirring up no matter how much he’s yelling at the stupid _punk_ to wake the fuck up. **Just wake up** , Stevie. Wake up and lookit. Please, for the love of God, Steve, please!

It’s like a page out of his worst fears when Zola’s voice comes over the intercom, smooth and smug like butter won’t melt in his mouth _and he has a reason to be_. The world’s foremost super-soldiers are right goddamned here with ‘experiment on me’ signs pretty much plastered to their asses.

“This… _behavior_ …has been very unbecoming for one of the finest weapons Hydra has ever had a hand in creating.” A tisking just irks the shit right outta him. “Now, we will have to begin the process all over again with you, Asset, and you **will** obey this time.”

He casts a desperate glance to the stainless steel workbench (one with old bloodstains still on the surface) where his arm is just lying useless. _If I could only get free, get the arm…_

“And once you are complete, as you should be, then we will indoctrinate our rather _brilliant_ find on this mission.”

And his heart stutters painfully. He and Steve were super-soldiers, but the process…the brainwashing…Steve wouldn’t survive it as Steve. He would be their new equivalent to the soldier.

“Ah, now we have our project all together! This will be much easier.” Zola sounds just this side of too satisfied like they’re already beat. “The Asset and the Captain shall be the very elite of Hydra’s forces. This is truly a momentous occasion, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m not the Asset,” he spits out, “my _name_ is Jim. _Jim Barnes_ , asshole, and you’ll have to fucking kill me this time. I’ll never stop fighting, this time, I’m not going to stop.”

Like a horror movie moment, the technician that had just appeared out of nowhere, looms over him with a smirk and the hum of electricity races over his skin. A mouth guard is hovering at the edge of his peripheral, held in a gloved hand.

“Oh, I think we will have plenty of time to test your wills, Asset. I think we can _definitely_ make time. Just so we are absolutely certain you will be loyal to a fault.”

The mouth guard moves closer, and he shoves himself as far away as he can get in the bindings, the top hood of the chair coming down to hover over him and start the road to pain…

And then the intercom just squawks and goes dead, static taking over the airwaves.

He catches a breath as the hand pauses and _For Those About to Rock_ comes over the ceiling intercom. His heart stutters hard, a gasp of breath, a moment of _utter fucking relief_ hits him right in the sternum.

“Hey boys,” Tony’s voice is warm over the intercom, “I think Hydra took something that belongs to me. And, really, I just don’t like when people take my things. I get so _totally_ _pissed_.”

And the automated maniacal holding him _to that fucking chair_ release with a pop and he is in the art of perpetual movement, coming up to knock the hood away from him, to duck around the side and bring his heel right the hell up and kick that sonofabitch right in the fucking jaw to the mouth guard goes flying and so does the Hydra tech that was about to start frying his brain all over.

Next instant, he’s running over to the table for his goddamned arm, screaming slightly as it attaches, his brain on fire for a few important seconds. “Tony! Iron Man, can you hear me?” He’s at the chains holding Steve, searching for the release mechanism but fucking damn it, he can’t find shit. He’s panting, straining, pulling and nothing is breaking the stupid…

“Jim, get back from the door.”

The blast tears metal, but he stays standing in front of Steve incase of shrapnel or shit, whatever. And the suit is coming through the doorway with another flanking it, piloted by J.J.

He’s so relieved, so _utterly fucking relieved_ that Steve will never have to _know_ or experience…

His chest jerks in a suppressed sob, and he’s got no idea what his face might look like right now, but the suit is just opening up and the fella jumps out with a run while yelling, “Sentry Mode! Take out anything that comes _near_ us.”

His knees give out a little and Tony’s right there, holding onto him because they were going to do again, they were going to erase Jim Barnes and make a killer, a doll, an empty space, out of him again.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’m here. We’re getting out, okay?” The mustache and goatee are against his forehead, his face, the hold around him tight enough to make him stop with the shakes and get his shit together. Nodding frantically, he stands up, going to Steve’s hanging form again.

Tony follows, takes a few seconds to fiddle with the cuffs and…he’s got them off, like fucking magic.

The two heft the blonde up. “Twenty-Seven, you carry Cap. Twenty-Eight, we’re blowing this pop-stand.”

**

Steve is staring at Tony, just _staring_ as the engineer gently rubs Bucky’s hand in his own, thumb moving in circles around the clenched, flexing muscles where the fist is clenching a handful of sheet. The touch must be light to keep from waking up the sleeping soldier.

Up on one elbow, looking tired from a long stint in the workshop, Tony only has eyes for Bucky’s panting, shivering form, and he leans back down again to get closer to Buck’s ear to start up talking again.

“And the Mark Twenty-Seven picks up Cap while we blow the ceiling out with the repulsors. We’re going to use seventy percent energy to blow through  _all_ the floors, and I’ve got you. I’m holding you around the waist, and the other suit has Cap, and we’re flying up through the compound. We’re flipping off goons, but we’re flying  _up_ Jim, we’re getting away.”

In his sleep, the panic and fear starts to fade as Jim Barnes moans a little, turning his face in Tony’s direction. His breathing is finally evening out now, not that panicked stuttering when F.R.I.D.A.Y alerted him something was wrong and poor Steve was exhausted from being awake for three days on the last ‘Captain America must save the universe’ mission (sure, he kind of felt _awkward_ coming on to their floor now that they’ve slept together, but Jim was in distress, _Jim_ was having a nightmare).

“And in mid-air, Steve wakes up, almost falls when he sees the suit, but it’s okay, the suit’s got him. He’s awake and alive and okay.”

Finally, there’s a deep sigh and Jim falls back under sleep’s heavy tow. Gingerly, Tony eases himself up off the bed behind him, being careful not to wake the soldier, but a hand grabs on to his wrist anyway.

Tony starts because he hadn’t realized Steve was awake, watching him. The hand around his wrist loosens a bit, the thumb rubbing the soft skin. Steve doesn’t have to say anything, just look at Tony through the darkness of his and Jim’s bedroom with those blue, blue eyes. A small tug, a gentle pull because Tony just _looks so tired_.

And Tony hesitates because this is _Steve and Jim’s_ bedroom, _their_ bed. It would be so hard, make him so much closer…

“Hey fella,” Steve finally whispers gently, like trying to calm a spooked animal. “C’mon, you need to sleep now. Been up too late.”

Jim snuffles, arm automatically reaching up, snagging Tony around the shoulders and pulling the engineer down without fanfare, pinning him down to lay half on Jim’s chest. The sleeping soldier just hums, nuzzling into Tony’s hair unconsciously.

“Saved…us,” the soldier whispers in his sleep and sighs again.

Steve’s grip moves from his wrist to twining around him and Jim, resting on the small of his back while he just lays his forehead back on Jim’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

And since the tired is gnawing at him anyway, Tony doesn’t fight it. Even though he’s dirty and grease-stained, still in old jeans and a tank, he relaxes by inches with the beat of Jim’s heart and the gentle movement of Steve’s fingers lulling him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much to do on "Fracture" but I haven't forgotten ;) Any suggestions people...?


	39. Owies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, I'm so sorry. Lol, I was trying for 'action scene!' and got fluff. I don't even know. I'm stuck on my other fic for a moment, so I just kind of belted this out.

“Sir, Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes have returned to the Tower. They requested to know your location and are on their way to meet you.”

Tony jerks himself out of the Hulk-buster, gripping the smooth edges of the chest lining and literally pulling himself up a few feet to peek over. With a small laugh, he’s boosted himself up to sit straddling half in the massive suit, half out, looking at the elevator outside the workshop doors. All at once, his heart gives a little extra beat (but of course it does, the two super soldiers are back from a potentially life-threatening mission, _of course he’s relieved_ _and **he is not in denial**_ **_so there_** ) and he’s wiping the sweat off his brow, leaning down to grab the rope attached to his Veronica-specific toolbox (see, it’s right there in sharpie) and pull it up when extremely cuddle-oriented super-soldier number one just bounds through the doors at a high lope. Tony’s grinning as the Brooklyn boy doesn’t even pause, but just catches a boot on one table and launches himself up to land Veronica’s chest, catching a seam with his flesh hand to propel his weight up the rest of the way. The motions all seamless, flowing like with more flare and playfulness than Steve’s smooth, calculated jumps and falls.

Jim goes right for the jugular, hands on Tony’s to lift the engineer against the front of Jim’s body.

“Hey doll face.” Jim’s face is in his neck in a heartbeat, breathing against Tony’s pulse, a long sigh of contentment.

And Tony’s arms are around him before his brain can make a _whoa, stop, aloof_ decision because he’s glad (relieved) that Jim’s okay, and after a second, is already looking around for Steve just because he just (needs) wants to make sure Cap is (not hurt) back from the mission too.

“Hey yourself, soldier. Glad you’re back. No owies this time, right?” And Jim is letting him slide down by inches until Tony’s on his feet again, balancing effortlessly on Veronica’s wide casing, looking up a little at the obviously worn and weary super-guy.

Shit is right. He looks basically _haggard_ but still smiling a little down at him.

“All right, shut the main shop down. We’ll do repairs tomorrow. J.J., go ahead and record what we’ve done so far—“

“Naw, Tones, you don’t—“

“And put in an order to Julio’s for the usual since I apparently have one, possibly _two_ stubborn super-soldiers that need fed.” Tony steamrolls right over Jim’s attempt at placating because Tony already has a hold of his flesh arm and hops down with a step to the work bench and then ground. Jim just jumps, landing beside him with a small hitch on his left side.

The engineer’s eyes narrow at the small slip and he pretty much marches the guy right back to the door because these two need to get showers, _eat_ for God’s sake, and just sleep for a few days.

“There he is,” and Steve is right by the door, still carrying the shield that he’s setting down by against the wall, his eyes just utterly glazed over with _holy cow, I’m a beat fella, I tell you now_. But, his grin is bright, aimed right at the shortest of the three. Tony’s eyes narrow even more, and he doesn’t even pause a second to give Jim a final push, hefting the shield himself and turning Steve with a hand on his arm to get them both in the elevator.

“In you two! In! Showers and food and tell me everything is good, you’re alive, which I’m obviously so stoked about, and then _sleep_ for, like, _days_. Both of you. Now.” The door is already sliding closed behind them, Jim leaning pretty heavily against the wall, side of his head braced there while he smiles a little grin at Tony and Steve looks just fatigued and rumpled in civvies but his smile is that strange kind of content (nope, _no denial here, folks, keep moving_ ).

Steve has the energy to hold up a placating hand, “okay, Stark. We get it. Not gonna argue.”

“We smell like ass, and I could eat my own arm ‘bout now,” Jim throws in, “s’good plan.”

“Please.” With the shield on one arm, Tony throws the other hand in a dramatic motion to the center of his chest, “this is _me_ you’re talking to. I make the absolute best plans except for that one time in Monte Carlo, but I totally made up for it.”

Both men let go of the weariness to fix him with a stare.

“Taking a nuclear device into some kind of space _hole_ ,” Steve deadpans.

“Tryin’ t’ get through a Hydra compound with two Glocks and _nothing_.” Jim snarks, immediately ignoring the look of _well, I also had a ballpoint pen, a rubber band, and chewing gum, so there_.

“Using power from the Arc Reactor to overload that transformer one time.”

 “Trying to use the suit to fill in for you at that board meeting. I thought Pep was gonna kill you. I mean, _really kill you_ , sweetheart.”

Now they’re just being _petty_.

“How about, ‘AIM will never see _this_ coming, Cap, let’s try it out?’ ”

“I liked the one: ‘hey Jim, do me a solid and taste this.’”

“Why not, ‘we’re just surrounded twenty to one, we can totally take them if we blow up their command center, right Steve?’ And, by the way, _Tony_ , the answer was ‘no.’”

“How about getting caught wearing those crazy sparkly pants in the ‘80s? ‘Cause yeah, we Googled the pictures, asshole. Me and Steve can _Google_ stuff now.”

 

And Tony’s return stare is downright _vicious_ , “all right you two… _point_. Maybe. Those pants were terrible, but _it was the ‘80’s_ so don’t judge. And by the way, I know some other self-sacrificing super-soldiers that are going to remain _nameless_ here, _Steve and Jim_ , so pots,” a finger dances between the two and back to himself, “kettle. See? I even used a reference you two would actually _get_.”

Jim and Steve exchange a look and the two are smiling through the layers of exhausted, glancing back at him with warmth, and Tony just shakes his head a little at them because _what else could he realistically do_?

Tony just sighs a little helplessly, the shield on his arms catching the light. “You two are going to be the death of me. It’s a fact.” An exaggerated sigh, “so, other than that, injuries? Either of you?”

Jim’s eyes immediately narrow and his head turns quickly. A tired Captain America rolls his eyes with a pained noise because, oh yeah, 3,2,1…

“How bad?” Tony is up in his bubble, staring up at his face, “where?”

“Not bad at all, I—“

“I was the guy that shoved a needle the length of my goddamned _forearm_ into your chest, Cap. Don’t give me that.” The finger wagging in Cap’s face is just for emphasis, really. Sometimes you’ve got to have hand motions with Cap, it keeps his attention, kind of like with a puppy.

The irritated/concerned expression makes Steve want to press his fingertips to the furrows on Tony’s brow to smooth them out, to press kisses there just to remind this fella that everything’s okay, that he’s _standing right here_ now. It’s fine, it really is (but not yet because Tony’s not ready for it; hopefully soon). He and Jim share a side glance right under Stark’s nose.

But the elevator is opening and the Tony is herding the two soldiers out using the shield on his arm without even trying, driving them to his kitchen.

“Sweetheart, shower. Steve, stool. Let me see it.” And, oh yeah, the _right now_ is pretty much implied because a hurt Captain America is always a cause for concern. Tony’s already got the shield propped up against the island while Jim is moving down the hallway with a weary arm raised in a wave and the promise of hot water and soap and shampoo beckoning him.

Under his kitchen sink (because the worst injuries that happen on his floor are _always_ in the kitchen, go figure; at some point, he’ll take his time to figure out how to fix that, like learning to cook without trying to take a few fingers off. Maybe. Not. Probably not.), he grabs the big First Aid kit and comes back to the weary blonde trying to unbutton his shirt with fumbling fingers.

Tony just bats his hands away and quickly does the job, waiting with no patience what-so-ever while Steve tries to maneuver the thing off his shoulders and a noise comes from between his clenched teeth. The engineer doesn’t even hesitate but helps out with worry riding his back because there are dried blood stains on the dingy white tank top underneath.

“It’s okay, really,” Steve tries, shoulders rounding so he’s hunching over himself, “you know how fast I heal.”

“Approximately sixteen point seven times faster than a person in peak condition with a healthy immune system in optimal age range,” just tumbles right out of Tony’s mouth while he’s maneuvering the tank top up and gingerly down those long arms.

The surprised look on his face would be hilarious if there wasn’t, you know, blood stains.

Now, worry is just gnawing because _damn._ The bruising is a dark purple/black combination that only a really painful injury gets when it’s finally done being a pain in the ass and starts up with the healing thing. There’s obvious gashes raking down, starting from below the right shoulder blade around to the bottom of his ribcage like some animal wanted to take a piece of him. A fit of pique hits Tony Stark in the form of a frown because the cuts haven’t even been treated, dried blood is still clinging to the wounds that are open and raw ( _dammit, Steve_ ). The left shoulder is swollen twice the size of the right (possible dislocation, possible break or fracture, blood vessels traumatized), and there are two puckered marks (from a knife or bullet or what?) with the skin healed over, still in that _fucking owie_ stage.

And, and, how the hell did his people, and _Agent_ , let Captain America get out of HQ without going to Medical?! How did he get past Jim because seriously sweaterless Steve on a chilly morning is just World War III in the making.

Tony, to keep himself from getting angry and yelling, just draws in a deep breath and fishes antiseptic out of the kit while he talks and thinks about the conversation he’s going to have with Phil.

“C’mon Cap, I know the exact cellular growth from Bruce to the Hulk, how long it takes Nat to do that crazy thigh throw down to the second, how much electrical charge Thor can bring in a single strike _even_ when he’s having an off day, and how many people Wanda can keep down, other telepaths, telekenetics, what have you, notwithstanding. You really think it’s a stretch I don’t know the rate of your healing?”

Now he’s trying to be easy, dabbing a soaked cotton ball on the open wounds, ignoring the intake of breath because this absolutely needs to be done for his peace of mind.

The harsh laugh is a little too pained, but Steve just smirks a little when Tony chances a glance up at him. “I know. You’re my backbone in a fight, Mr. Stark. S’why you get the next step in line.”

With a rueful grin, Tony just taps his temple with his free hand, “it’s all in the brain.”

He tosses away the gross cotton ball and goes for the next, taking on the second gash with the same intensity, hesitating for a second because really, speaking of Bruce (Mr. I’m Not That Kind of Doctor, Oh, Shit, Someone Is Hurt So I’m Totally Going to _Be_ That Kind of Doctor Until No One is Dying and Go Right Back to Plausible Deniability), he could really use another person of science to make sure that things are somewhat okay.

Tony opens his mouth, and Steve just interjects right in there, “don’t call Bruce. There’s nothing more can be done, and it’s late, okay?”

The look Steve gets back is dubious at best.

“Scout’s honor. I get a shower, get some food in me, sleep, and I’ll be right back to normal by tomorrow morning.” And those blue eyes are soft when they look down.

Tony just sighs (when did puppy eyes become a weakness because, _really?_ They never work on his board of directors so it’s very unfair they’re working now), and waves a hand. “All right, go get in with Jim and I’ll wait on food.”

Steve stands gingerly and leans down to press his mouth at the top of Tony’s head, not really thinking about it as he turns and ambles down the hallway; with his heart beating a little too hard, Tony Stark just straightens and methodically makes sure everything in the First Aid kit is put away before it goes back under the sink. He moves down the hallway, into his bedroom where the two are in the bathroom with the shower going and the door closed (he sighs a little in relief because there are still boundaries in place, good), talking softly, voices muted, and he pulls out drawers to get a pairs of sweats and t-shirts laid out on the bed before going back to the kitchen and wait on his take-out guy.

When Steve steps into the bathroom and closes the door by habit, Jim slides the door open enough to peek out at him with a small grin, one that turns down when he catches the blonde’s battered upper body. The results aren’t looking better when the jeans and underwear come off; dark mottled skin and stiff movements now that Tony’s not watching and worrying. Jim just opens the door, arms out wordlessly, taking in every injury with careful, assessing eyes.

With a sigh, Steve pretty much sinks into him as the hot water washes over pulled muscles and healing ribs, aching spine, and bruised legs.

“You take too many risks, babe,” Jim admonishes roughly, running the soapy washcloth over what he can reach with Steve’s forehead in the niche between his neck and shoulder. “There were other ways around it.”

A chuff against his throat answers that. “Did what I had to in the moment. Good strategy at the time.”

“Huh. Says Captain Asshole. Really, Stevie, you almost gave me a heart attack out there. Don’t do that stupid stuff anymore. I’m here, you gotta team of good people. Shit, if Tony’d been out there, he woulda been repulsoring everything in his path to get to you.”

“Hm,” the taller just hums as his body eases more under the spray. For a fella that taken one hell of an ice bath, hot showers were really his undoing. “Pr’bly. Good thing Iron Man was on stand-by.”

Jim’s face turns to look at the head of spiky hair, “you ass. You made sure he was gonna be benched, didn’t you?”

Another hum. “He was on the last bad one. Widow’s turn this time. Then Thor is he’s on world. If not, then Sam. One heavy hitter for every mission at least, more if it’s gonna be a bad one.”

“You keep a roster if the whole team ain’t needed. Why doesn’t that surprise me, babe?” Jim nudges him up enough to get his front clean, be careful around the motley of injuries.

“Don’t want anyone to burn out, _mon lupe_. Gotta be a good leader.” Steve finally straightens with audible cracks in his joints and a breathy groan, but he lifts a tired hand to Jim’s face anyway, thumb moving across the full bottom lip.

“Yeah? When does the Cap get to sit one out, huh?”

Shrug of one shoulder and a rueful glance. “Like the evil AI said: I always gotta have a war. What I’m best at, Buck.” Then the hand is on Jim’s jaw, tilting him up so Steve can lean down and be gentle about pressing their lips together in something sweet and slow, something without expectation but with warmth and emotion. They made it back, saved the day, and after three days of not even a hug, get to hold one another and be close.

As easy as he can with the metal arm, Jim winds both around his fella, half to help hold him up and half because he needs the touch as well, letting the water just warm them both.

So, Paul, the delivery guy, is just entertaining as hell. Really, the guy is so star-struck, and Tony has to humor him for a _few_ minutes while the guy are showering. The kid chatters on about things and stuff while Tony sets out plates for the food on the island about his favorite Iron Man moments (so blushing right now, really) with hand gestures and multiple _dudes_ and _it was just like whoa, so cool_.

Graciously, Tony gives the guy some details with a grin while they’re walking (he’s kind of shooing) to the elevator.

“Believe me, it was much cooler in person,” Tony is saying as Paul steps back in. “But, seriously, deliver next time and I’ll totally show you one of the suits.”

And, _dude_. Dude. Tony waves as the door slide closed and goes back to the kitchen, sets out water bottles as the bedroom door opens and his…the guys come down the hall smelling like clean, worn-out super soldiers, eyes bleary but interested once they smell food.

Very much the great shawarma nom of 2012, the three of them ate in comfortable silence, the two slouched over the island, slumping in their chairs while they fight to raise burgers and fries. No need to talk about the mission yet; tomorrow was for that, tonight was taking care of them. And after the food is gone and Steve is almost asleep, and Jim with his head back and eyes closed.

Neither protested when Tony slid one of Steve’s arms over his shoulders and lead him back down the hallway first, steering the blonde under warm covers and softness; going back for Jim, he just grins to himself when the shorter soldier slumps against his side, head on his shoulder as they walk. He doesn’t need to chatter while tucking them in, just a hand in their hair, a gentle touch, a relieved touch. The two are so far gone, neither hear him back out and close the door softly with a grin.


	40. Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not Tony's idea of a sweet vacay because, really, Steve has issues with the cold. And, you know, dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Peeks around corner*  
> *Gently sets down*  
> *RUNS AWAY*  
> Did this fast, sorry for any mistakes.

“I should be,” he says to himself with a grunt, “seriously _pissed_ about this.”

With wobbly balance, he lurches up, hand grasping, finding purchase. Muscles strain under his own weight, fighting against gravity as he pulls himself up to the next branch, pine needles already in his clothes and hair, the sap on his fucking gauntlets (sigh) and up to the almost his shoulders, sticky like… He darts a glance up, breath automatically catching at how close the red boot is, he is so fucking _close_.

“I mean, _who does that_ , Cap? Dammit, self-sacrificing idiot gets himself _stuck_ , and I should be—I don’t know, maybe in my workshop creating the _next best thing_ or out on a real mission saving the world or something, not some reconnaissance bullshit that just has _uh-oh bad idea_ written all over it!” The more he talks, the more strength there is in his arms, the closer he comes to Captain America’s precariously dangling form.

The closer he gets, the worse it looks. From on the ground, he couldn’t see the dark stains on the dark fabric.

In his usual style, he calms himself with banter. “Or maybe sunning myself in Pismo Beach with all the clams I can eat,” the sharp pain hits quickly, spreads out through his abdomen and back, taking his breath in a harsh gasp, but he forces himself to breathe in normally, to ignore it, eyes for the next stable branch, not looking down but staring up at the bottom of that boot. “We’re going to marathon that one night, you know. Bugs Bunny and Looney Toons and just terribly racist, sexist cartoons all around. V’s going to give that _look_ and Thor is just not going to get _anything_ about it, and Nat is going to have a field day with Bugs Bunny in drag, and Sam, Cap, Sam is going to laugh it off but be pissed—”  

His foot slips for a heart racing moment before he catches himself with a branch under the arm and immediately hurts like a _bitch_. Shit. _Get the hell up there, Stark._ Swallowing his pulse, he reaches out again, pulls his weight, only the gauntlets with one working repulsor and the standard ‘dammit, we’re going down, _again_ ’ survival backpack adding to what he’s hauling.

“You know,” he starts again, making sure his footing is on, “if my phone wasn’t on fire, I would _so_ be getting a picture of this because, really Cap. Your hordes of fangirls would love to see you hanging around, stuck to the remains of the helicopter, totally unconscious. I mean, Facebook would explode, and Tumblr would crash. Twice.” He pauses long enough to give a look around their surroundings, holding his breath in hopes those sons of bitches hadn’t found the wreckage yet, that he still had some _time_ to get them away.

“Better yet? I’m going to describe this to the Winter Soldier _in fucking detail,_ Cap. All of it. I’m going to make it sound like the worst thing _ever_ , and I swear, you’ll be wearing sweaters and eating hot soup for the rest of your super soldier life.” Still nothing, just the rise and fall of the star spangled chest to show the Captain isn’t dead. Face serene in unconsciousness, blood has already made a slow trail from under the cowl to do that creepy dripping thing off his chin.

“If you’re dead or dying before I get up there: So. Fucking. Help. Me, Steve.”

He’s finally by the ankle, so close. He doesn’t reach out because he has no idea what could send the Captain plummeting to the ground since, well, from what he can see, the wiring harness holding him is literally a jumble of cables the soldier just happened to stumble the hell into during the crash; who knew how fragile the hold is and Tony Stark is not about to take any chances that a fall like this would do irreparable damage, serum be damned. Those arms could slip out of the jumble with a harsh wind, so nope, he had to figure out something else. The non-working repulsor gauntlet hitches, locking around the branch, and Tony takes too many important minutes to force the thing open with his own fingers.

Once he’s fairly confident the thing is going to flex (well, mostly confident because where the hell is he going to get more than a crappy tool kit and Swiss Army knife out in the _middle of_ nowhere), he starts looking for the thickest, strongest branches further up, planning his route. He climbs with the other hand leading for just in case, gauging his progress by eye-level Steve. Second reach to the knees, next one a little higher, one he has to strain for, pulling on the injuries more, but he can see the fucking shrapnel that went through the suit at Steve’s abdomen during either the attack or the explosion. His jaw clenches for an important second to see the suit pierced, but there _no time_ for it now. Next and he’s at shoulder level, two more and he could brace Cap before shooting the damn wiring harness holding the soldier aloft. That’s it, _two more, Stark_. _Get your ass in gear_. He grunts and reaches again.

**

Securing a heavy as hell super-soldier to his back, especially with a harder-than-diamond disc on _his_ back, sure as _hell_ made the list of ‘shit I never want to do with possibly bruised or broken ribs.’ If he was in any kind of contact with J.J. or F.R.I.D.A.Y, he’d make sure a list gets started immediately and reviewed at intervals since _really_. Tony had reached the strongest branch in the section closest to the hanging super soldier and dug the emergency rope out from the backpack one-handed, eyes all for the gently swaying form. The difficult part (for the moment) is leaning far enough to get their shoulders aligned so he can wind the rope around Steve’s shoulders and his, essentially tying them together, then getting the rope around both of their chests one-handed, so the Cap is pretty much secured to his upper body for the climb back down. Dangerous but necessary is the well-made repulsor shot to sever the cabling and pretty much drop over two hundred pounds literally _on his back_.

He’d wrapped both arms around the tree, bracing as well as he could for the extra mass he knew would be coming and still, Cap’s dead weight almost pulling him right the fuck down too. Luckily for them both, he’s a guy that hefted heavy shit for a living ( _Starks have **iron** in their bones, Tony. We can’t have weaknesses or the public will eat us alive…_ )

The strain on his injuries and back notwithstanding, they actually made some pretty good time. Even better, there was enough hanging equipment for Tony to snatch random pieces so he could maybe put some kind of communication/homing beacon/panini machine together maybe once they were safely away from burning stuff. So, winning.

The climb down is the most careful he can ever remember being; even when his own safety was at risk (because it’s _Steve_ ) partially because he has to strain to keep himself upright against gravity while fighting the pain of his possibly terrible injuries _and_ keep them both hanging on to the epic pine, also against a totally different type of gravity. On the way, he made all kinds of mental notes to make the pine tree, with its thick and sturdy branches, SI’s tree of the year.

Finally getting to the ground meant he could let Cap down for a few important minutes to just slump and hurt and get the damn rope off, holding the soldier up with an arm held out. Once he could open his eyes without seeing spots, Tony channels a little bit of Bruce and checks the injured soldier over for serious bleeders or broken things (it also let his shoulders rest since the rope cut deeper than he’d realized). Zippers and straps that he knew because, you know, _his creation_ are easy to find and gone so he can see _some_ of the damage.

While a whole lot of _not good_ is staring him in the face, Tony unconsciously shivers in the soft snow fall now that he’s not hyper-focused, trying to assess how badly everything might be on the super soldier, snagging the survival backpack and _hoping to Thor_ Bruce remembered to put some kind of first aid something in it—

The hand latches on to his wrist so fast, he doesn’t even have the chance to jerk back.

“It’s me, Cap!” His reaction is immediate since he has learned—the hard way—about letting sleeping super soldiers lie. True story. Jim had been just a mess of _God_ _what did I do_ and it was only a black eye of all things, no broken cheek or eye socket (so damn it, Blitzkrieg, _stop apologizing_ ).

The blue eyes, however, are dazed with pain and the instinct to attack first, the grip painful. A few seconds and the soldier seems to realize no apparent threat is lurking in the shadows trying to strip him down to his red, white, and blue skivvies. But the pain receptors really come on-line with full consciousness and the twist to his face makes Tony’s heart beat a little faster because he’s got nothing calibrated to super metabolisms, no blood bags, no surgical equipment, nothing if there’s serious internal damage the serum might not be able to glue back together…

“Tony…?” The voice is laced with pain and confusion. _Possible concussion, skull fracture, brain damage?_

“It’s me, Steve. I’m here,” and he’s already rummaging around for one of the four water bottles as his wrist is released and a half-assed attempt at sitting up is moderately successful.

“The…copter?”

“Done for,” he cracks the seal and holds the back of Steve’s cowled head to put the bottle to his mouth. Gratefully, the soldier drinks for long moments, throat working. “We’re on our own.”

“Where…?”

“Somewhere over the Ozarks maybe? Not sure, wasn’t really worried about the nav system when we were going down, so, you know.”

“Damn.” _Uh-oh, cursing?_ Tony’s gaze sharpens; he puts the bottle down to start back on the sources of blood coming through the suit. “Your suit was damaged in the crash. Tony, you shouldn’t have—“

“Don’t go there,” the mechanic warns, “you would have been thrown out of the helicopter at a few thousand feet and just, no, Steve. Not going to do that.” Detaching his suit (after the stowaway gunmen had been dealt with) to save Captain America from just, you know, plummeting to his death while Iron Man sans Iron was still at the controls in an attempt to keep them from crashing into a _mountain_ was a good idea at the time, he’d stand by it, give it a 10 out of 10 to never do again.

And fuck, the gash in the right leg above the knee looks hellatiously painful, crusting around the tear in the suit, but he’s not seeing the glint of bone and other than the initial wave, the injury doesn’t seem to be anywhere near gushing (so much winning) regardless of the many vessels under the skin. Moving up to the red and white stripes, he notes the first two tears in flesh are moderate, only bleeding sluggishly, but he still can’t tell if any metal shards are in the wounds and if they are, how deep, how much meat and viscera may be damaged below the surface of skin. The third and fourth are worse, still leaking whenever the abdomen flexes. A breath hisses through his teeth in sympathy.

When Tony glances up, the blonde is staring at him, a wealth of meaning behind that assessing gaze. He doesn’t even flinch under Cap’s _you’ve got some explaining to do, fella_ look because, nope, he’d give up a fucking suit to save the guy any day. Nothing was going to change that, tough shit Steve.

“How bad are you?” ( _His right arm is moving stiffly, add that to the laundry list_ ).

“Pfft, really? I’m not punctured, lacerated, bleeding, concussed, or lost any type of consciousness, Cap. Like, I’m going to totally start tap dancing, Ginger Rogers to your Fred Astaire, okay?”

“Smart ass.” But even through the few seconds of _holy shit, we totally survived that crash. Kudos_ , the pained grin is worth the climb.

“As if this is new information or something? I mean, we’ve _met_ , right?”

“You’re my type, Stark. Don’t care what the hell you say,” and the non-tucked hand find the ground, sinking into the light skiff of fluffy snow falling around them.

“I’ll file that under ‘Things to put on my Facebook profile’ when we get back.” And he automatically puts a hand to the bulk of shoulder, attempting to keep Cap down while he’s shoving shit back into the backpack with the other hand because he knows the leader of the Avenger’s by now and no amount of logic is going to stop over two hundred pounds of stubborn star spangled asshole.

With a shrug that does nothing to dislodge his hold, that face gets all kinds of huffy ( _cute but ineffective_ ). “They’ll be coming to the wreck soon. We need to be _gone_.”

“Fine, Fine. Agreed. We can do some quick first aid on you and get moving. I’ve got some parts that might help make a locator or something to call the others.” It’s a losing battle, but he has to try.

“Not as bad as it could have been. First aid later, after we’ve got some distance.” The big guy is making a second attempt at getting his feet under him, but Tony already has the backpack on and is fitting his gauntlets back in place. Then he’s the one up first, moving around to takes Steve’s uninjured arm and winds it over his shoulders. Together ( _fuck the back and ribs_ ), they get Steve standing on his own two feet.

“All right Capistrano, let’s move.”

With a huff, the boots give an experimental wobble or two before the lost superheroes start a long walk deeper into the middle of nowhere.

**

A few hours or so later, in which Tony is patiently waiting on Captain America to come up with some miraculous plan of action while riding the blood loss train (because, you know, it’s _Steve_ ) but is sadly mistaken since they have little to work with and no time to stop long enough to assess.

“You know,” he begins conversationally, “this is totally a minor set-back.”

The corresponding groan from Steve just makes him adjust his grip on the arm slung around his shoulders, tightening his gauntlet around Cap’s wrist. At some point, his other arm had slung around the guy’s middle, which is pretty much the only thing keeping him on his feet while Tony just drags him along in a terrible attempt to stay with some cover.

Well, winter time kind of screwed his plans since they’re in the middle of an Ozark winter wonderland with one very hurt Captain America, one suitless Iron Man, one Hulk survival backpack (complete with a change of pants and t-shirt because really Bruce, who _hasn’t_ seen you naked? YouTube much?), and a small cache of tools and parts he managed to snag before the helicopter went down over the mountain somewhere—he squints into the distance—around there.

So, it’s going to be up to him to have the epic epiphany this time, come up with the next step in plan _Let’s try to live a few more days so Jim can kill us_ : get Cap somewhere safe without a whole bunch of _crazy_ guys with guns, bind the wounds this time, use the mechanics from one of the gauntlets and excess tech to rig a homing beacon, and everyone could kind of jump in the Quinjet and _maybe_ come for a pick-up because that would be just _stellar_ right about now.

“You know,” Cap’s voice is still somewhat pained, “your idea of a ‘minor set-back,’” and yeah, he just _has_ to wiggle the arm around Tony so he can make quotation fingers. Cute, Steve. Just cute. “Is never really _minor_. Or, not usually.”

“Rude.” Tony’s brows wiggle while he takes as much weight as possible (ropes bit in too deep, the pain is burning more now), keeping them moving through the rough terrain because dense forests have _great_ cover in the fall, spring, or summer—they, however, are shit out of luck because snow and bare trees do not turn the odds in their favor.

“I have a special scale for assessing situations depending on the factors of _Oh_ and _Shit_ ,” the ensuing laugh is still pained, shaky, “thus the division between major and minor.” He gives a slight glance at their backs, listening hard. It’d been the better part of an hour since he’s heard shouting in the far distance (as obvious from the echo), so they may just enough time to take care of some quick necessities before aforementioned _crazy guys_ were back on their trail. Snow, as it turns out, is both a detriment and a saving grace as their footsteps are being covered but _holy hell it’s cold_.

Well, now or never. Cap is just stubborn enough to insist they keep moving well into night if Tony doesn’t get him to stop right now.

“Okay, okay, so” he leads Steve to the base of a tree with a few rock outcropping around, “we stop here, check you out, maybe make a toy sign with neon letters that might read something like, ‘Tony and Steve cordially invite you to the Rescue Mission of the Year, dress code is casual pending large guns and fanfare, RSVP not required. P.S. Help.’” He’s already assessing the previously noted injuries while talking and determining the healing factor acceleration to try calculating how bad off Cap really is if the serum isn’t hurrying things along.

A few seconds to kick a hole in the snow that is vaguely ass-shaped, Tony slowly takes the bulk of weight to lower Steve against the tree as gingerly as possible. Doesn’t help the harsh breath steaming out of Cap’s mouth even while he’s leaning back against the bark with the shield still on his back ( _damn, should have taken it off him, but he would have at least had some cover if snipers would have surprised us_ ). Once Steve is down, Tony is kneeling beside him, taking the backpack off to dig around for whatever supplies Bruce might have left (ah, small first aid kit, possible score). He takes a quick swig of the opened water bottle and shoves the thing in Cap’s gloved hand to give him something else to focus on while the kit yields nothing much. Alcohol, minor suture kit, band aids (really? In case the Hulk gets a paper cut?), couple packs of gauze pads. No forceps to pry out the shrapnel if it’s still in the wounds, one pair of gloves, a couple packs of Tylenol. That’s what he’s got to work with.

First thing, he needs something to act as a tourniquet; they’ve been travelling too far in the snow fall as it is. The majority of their tracks are probably already covered (well that and they had attempt to walk the hell away from the beaten path as much as possible since Captain America is apparently part Navajo and tell direction by some non-existent moss and shit) and the star spangled man suit has kept some pressure against the wounds, but again some real bandages would be awesome right now. Just totally the _bee’s knees_ , Bruce. Okay, whatever, along with the t-shirt in the back pack, he’s working off his own the long sleeve and t-shirt below it. _Shit, cold_. The long sleeve goes back on since, _well, that’s what he’s got to work with_ , and starts tearing both into manageable strips to wind around that leg and the rest for the obvious wounds the serum has yet to fix.

“Tell ‘em to bring a nice bottle of wine for the occasion,” Cap grunts harshly, eyes all for the engineer’s briefly bared upper body to reassure himself again the fella was okay and—dammit, the deep purpling around Tony’s ribs and up to his chest around the arc reactor aren’t good. Not to mention he’s been pretty much laying all over the fella for the better part of three hours. Bucky was going to be so pissed off once they got out of this, Steve can already feel his ears turning red from the blister he and the mechanic are in for (Good _God_ what the heck happened to his shoulders? How did he get rope burn that deep and his shirt is _stuck.._ ). But Tony is completely focused on what he’s doing, hardly noticing he’s almost ripping the shirt out of his own wounds in the attempt to get it off even if Steve is visibly wincing on his behalf. “The good stuff, we don’t do it cheap, yeah Tony?”

“Absolutely.” He calculates the amount of blood Steve’s already lost, times it by his weight, and his usual healing factor hindered by lack of appropriate calories…

“Maybe we could add a subtle yet refined reminder of etiquette,” Steve prattles, “like, ‘please do not throw yourself in front of explosions’ or something.”

Tony’s brows arch up into his hairline, “really? Just, really Steve? The suit was between me and the blast. Don’t you _know_ that cool guys don’t look at explosions? Because I’m very sure—“

“Uh-hu, dummy. ‘ _Who’s the super soldier between the two of us_?’” And the finger wiggle.

Looking up from the injuries, he gives Cap that patient look. “On another subject, since I will totally win the fight this time, please tell me you are one _hundred_ percent positive your body will push the shrapnel and bullets out. Because not looking like that’s a whole lot of happening yet and it’s been _hours_. If it’s not going to, I need to make enough of a fire to sterilize the tools I managed to get and dig them out of you, which will not be pleasant seeing as I have neither firewater nor drugs.”  

Steve gives him a _look_ right back, “they will. The ones in my chest are already close to the surface. We need to keep moving, Tony.”

“Incorrect. We need to rest long enough for me to try and fashion a homing beacon or communication device at least,” _not to mention give you some time to rest, recover from blood loss before you go shocky_. _Because, **bad** and I’m playing Bruce here since “I’m really not that kind of doctor” like, I’m **less** that kind of doctor even. _

“Not long, we can’t be stationary on the ground long.” Steve’s eyes are still a little glazed with pain but damn, he’s calculating now that they’re getting a better look to their surroundings and the sun will be setting soon, the wheels turning with an attempt to form a plan with a wing and a prayer.

“I can get you up,” Tony mutters mostly to himself while working the malfunctioning gauntlet off.

Steve laughs, a punch-drunk sound, “already proven, Shellhead.”

Tony wastes precious moments staring, “not what I meant! When I’m hitting on you and being _totally_ inappropriate, I’ll be more obvious about it, promise. Like, ‘hey, is that a _shield_ on your back or are you just happy to see me?’” The uniform isn’t the newest one; why wouldn’t Steve have worn the most recent fabrication? It had more on the Nomac weave and—Tony closes his eyes for a second, breathes.

That big hand on his elbow jars him out of Tony land where he can get his Zen back, and those eyes are just…so _much_ right now. And Tony, Tony is just so utterly _pissed off_ that he hadn’t covered enough, hadn’t been fast enough, and the goddamned suit still got fucked up anyway.

“What I meant is I can get you to higher ground,” the engineer comes back to the original point, finger skyward for Steve to look up the massive tree they’re under. “I already got you _out of one_ , you know.”

“Not enough cover in these. Even if I wasn’t wearing red, white, and blue,” the blonde tries to joke, tilting his head to the side against the tree trunk, scraping the shit out of it with the shield still on his back.

Finally freeing his forearm, Tony hums a little, and gingerly props Steve’s knee up on his own and tries assessing the wicked gash just above the bend. The suit is ripped enough that he can probably wrap it without having to take anything off and expose Cap to the cold more than he has to.

“Okay. Breathe,” is all the warning the blonde gets before the dumping of alcohol on the gash makes the breath into a choke. “Sorry, sorry, I know that sucks so much.” But Tony is already wiggling around in the leg of the suit to get his sore fingers under Steve’s knee and feed the strips of shirt through. Next turn in _let’s get bleeding shit patched up as best we can_ and for the second time, he’s getting the suit loose around the abdomen, still only what he needs to get his hands and strips through because it’s cold and he needs Steve to reserve as much body heat as possible.

He know about the whole cold thing; he was one of the few that’s seen Captain America shake from the nightmares of dying in the _Valkyrie_ in frigid temps. He’s one of the fewer that risked bodily harm to shove himself against Steve to try and keep him as warm as possible so the _frigid death_ lost its hold.

“Okay.” _Next thing_. “I need twenty, maybe thirty minutes to try making something to get our position out to the others. _You_ need to try and sleep, heal a little since I’ve got nothing else to help with that except for a few protein bars but not like sterile dressing, antibiotics, and whatnot.”

“Can’t,” but the soldier is looking about ready to do just that, eyes heavy lidded and muscles finally relaxing just enough to be obvious; finally, hopefully, the serum might be trying to get enough energy together to heal the blood loss and injuries. “Gotta watch your back.”

“It’s still daylight, and I’ve got my own back, Cap.” And…and because _reasons_ that have nothing to do with the mission or Iron Man or Avengers or _friends_ as he’s made himself stick with since they got back…Tony finds himself on his knees, leaning up, leaning _closer_ and that’s his hand at the back of Steve’s neck, pulling the soldier into the niche between the side of his face and shoulder. Nope, he’s not going to admit how relieved he is that dammit _still alive_ , but this…this would tell Steve all he needed to know, wouldn’t it?

After a long moment, one in which aforementioned soldier is gripping the back of his shirt in a tight fist and just slumping against him in that _it’s been a shitty kind of day_ weary, Tony eases him back to the tree trunk, looking down a little (and dammit, _no_ , no forehead kisses, just _no_ , **_stop it, brain_** ) at the hazy, half-open blue eyes.

“Need to talk…you an’ me.” The eyes are getting more glazed.

“We talk all the time,” and his heart stutters a little beside the arc reactions because _really_ , he’s been trying to be discreetly not an asshole for the first time in, like, his life (the _right thing_ , Tony). “I mean, we _should_ talk, Steve, because this is _not_ the uniform you’re looking for.” Oh yeah, that line is probably right there between his brows since Mr. Captain America didn’t follow protocol of better, reinforced gear.

 _Wait for it_ : _“Gee, Tony, I get that reference.”_

Instead, those eyes narrow. “You know what I mean, fella,” and now Steve’s trying to actually focus, trying to sit up straight again. “Bucky thinks we did something wrong, you know. You haven’t come back to us since Scotland.”

 _Idiots_. _What part of one night, one week, whatever, stand didn’t you get? This isn’t a long-term relationship_.

“You two didn’t do anything wrong,” Tony immediately interjects, “and we have totally hung out since then, Steve. Live in the same Tower, eat at the same table, hang out in the workshop, remember? I get it, you two haven’t been taking your Ginko every day. Fellas your age just getting forgetful. Hey are you losing too much blood—?”

That broad hand is on his jaw, tilting his face up just enough that Steve can lean just a little and press their mouths together at a slight slant. It’s easy, non-insistent, a soft press of lips that’s very unlike the last time over a month ago when they did this out of the States while Jim watched them together with heat making his eyes stormy gray.

Steve run his tongue over Tony’s lips, dips inside when the abrupt gasp gives him just enough space. The tang of blood is there and underneath, a hint of mint from his chewing gum, and the wildness that is all Steve Rogers. ( _God, how much he missed this…_ ).

Against the engineer’s mouth, the Captain shudders a little, “’hanging out’ ain’t what I’m talking about.” Small presses of lips against lips, breath trading back and forth.

And this close, in this terribly intimate moment, Tony laughs a little against that perfect mouth, opening his eyes to the deep blue depths half full of something too deep for his brain to calculate in numeric quantities, “this is the absolute worst timing, you know. I mean—“ Steve presses in again, cutting him off.

When they part again, Tony isn’t deterred, “—we’re in the middle of a bad situation, Steve. You’re not being a very good Captain.”

This time, the blonde huffs a laugh, “I’m a lot a things right now, Iron Man. Captain is only one of them.” And yeah, where Tony is pressed up against those powerful hips, the uniform is tenting slightly.

“How about—“ he’s cut off again, one final pull at his jaw, a hard press before Steve pulls back completely, letting the engineer free to sit back. “How about,” but his voice is a hell of a lot huskier this time, “we save this conversation for when you aren’t bleeding out and crazy bad guys with guns aren’t following us. Deal?”

Slumping back against the tree, a half smile on the Captain’s face, his lips red and moist, he gives a slight nod of assent. “Long as you promise it’ll happen. No hiding in the workshop on lockdown when we get back.” A slow blink for Steve because his cheeks are getting rosier, and not from the cold, the serum kicking into high gear, meaning the soldier would _need_ to sleep, “been hiding from us long enough, Stark.”

“I know,” Tony admits softly, “and I promise. The three of us will…talk. Amend the agreement, okay? Swear, but right now, you’ve got to sleep and heal as much as possible for us to get out of this.”

“Hm, shouldn’t…should keep movin’ while we got daylight.” But the blonde is already tipping his head back, eyes sliding closed.

“Won’t do us any good if you pass out.” Tony counters.

“Need to watch your back…in case they find us.” But he’s relaxing by degrees.

“I’ll wake you the second something happens or I get a signal out. Do this for me, Steve.”

And whatever Captain America may have had on the back of his tongue fades away.  Tony glances at him, relieved as hell because a sleeping Steve means a healing Steve. Viciously, Tony digs in the backpack again and pulls out the survival blanket and tucks it around the soldier (because he hates to be cold, too much of a reminder of the ice and dying and freezing, Tony has flashes of memories from before Jim found them; Steve screaming out loud in his nightmares, jerking, reaching out, clawing through non-existent ice and water).

With his senses prickling at noises, Tony works fast, trying to pull the parts of his first gauntlet into a rudimentary homing beacon, but he doesn’t have enough spare parts. _Shit_. He even made the damn things with extra pieces _in case he got stuck in a fucking cave again or some shit_. But the transistor he needs is damaged beyond his ability to repair without a soldering iron and replacement copper. Even the parts he pulled off the helicopter won’t do much for a beacon. He may have enough to rig together a rudimentary signal to J.J. with text directions, an SOS, but nothing with voice capabilities. He could program J.J.’s network directly. Okay. So, not hopeless, wishing for a Park Ranger or something to just come bumbling along and maybe save them.

Plan one acquired, good. His hands are already moving, picking out the small tool kit from the backpack while he sits facing the sleeping Steve, fitting together the components he would need, including the utterly destroyed remains of his cell phone since, hey parts are parts. He could program the network using the—yup, just like that. Okay, so next is to connect with this wire—there.

He shifts gears a little while working, eyes moving over the device taking shape in his slightly numb hands, now thinking _weapon_ , something that could be longer range than say, _a fucking spear or something_ (but thinking in realistic possibilities, the fingers and bits to the shitty gauntlet could be repurposes at the end of a few sticks, but he hasn’t had to really throw anything to, you know, pierce a spleen or whatnot, in, well, _ever_. Then again, Steve could probably do the epic hunter thing from some cover maybe if he was still down while Tony fired the working replusor as a diversion…?). and Tony just breathes easily, brain thrumming to put together the pieces of the puzzle with all the parts he has to work with (plenty to make a rudimentary sonic gun? No bullets for projectiles, a few good lenses, broken repulsor, laser possibly?).

With half his concentration on their surroundings while Cap slept (and he is seriously not stressing about the little _conversation_ he promised to have _or_ the obvious effect that brief exchange had on him because _ow, jeans are too tight right now even though he’s literally freezing his ass off_ ) and the other half on tearing apart the gear box and control panel he’d taken from the helicopter. He is very not concentrating on his aching shoulders or abdomen. Not even an issue with Captain America sluggishly bleeding out.

“Fuck Steve,” he says in a soft voice, but the engineer in him has already come to the fore. While Steve is out, he’s got to get some things in place to protect them. 

**

“Do. Not. Do. _Anything_.”

When the Black Widow gets up in your face, you don’t fucking move. Like her name’s sake, she will bite off your head and smile afterwards. Jim Barnes has been working with her side-by-side for long enough to know the story, to recognize when Nat is no longer in the building, but her alter ego is ready and rearing to go. It’s a beautiful thing, to watch a dangerous doll like her get that look of _I’m going to snap your neck with nothing more than my thighs, asshole. Bring. That. Shit._

Twenty seconds ago, she strides right past him, not even pausing in the reach out to snag his wrist and pull him right along with her.

“C’mon toots,” he starts, half a stumble for a second before he’s pacing behind her, sweaty as hell and feeling good after a few rounds with the God of Thunder. “I haven’t done anything anyway. If this is about that shitty vodka you think is the real Russian thing, lemme just tell ya—“ _it ain’t and you ought to be ashamed_.

“We’re meeting at the Quinjet,” she interrupts ruthlessly, and he gets it in an instant: _Widow_. “We’ll go over the specific there.” Jim blinks and the tone, the voice had sounded like previous handlers, like old mission specs, that his brain does that thing where it stutters a split second into a whole new territory of awareness.

 _The Handlers, Steve, **Tony** , are not secure_. He and the Asset are together on this.

Like she knew, Widow had turned abruptly, moving to get _right up in his goddamed face_ with the ‘whatever it is you might be thinking, just don’t. Don’t make me stop you.’ And the Asset respects her, maybe would feel bad if it came down to brass tacks and he would eventually have to take her down because that is a whole hell of a lot of talent wasted for nothing. Jim, however, couldn’t imagine it, not unless she did something horrific that pushed him to the _me_ or _her_ scenario. After reading him the riot act, she’s starting back on the way, grabbing his wrist again, and moving to the elevator (F.R.I.D.A.Y. just has it waiting for her, wow even a damn computer is scared, well, glad he isn’t the only one).

The implications aren’t good. He can draw the lines in watching how rigid her spine is, how tense her shoulders are under the reinforced cat suit.

“My fella.” And the tone is low, not a question.

Her pause is evident even if she doesn’t stop moving. “Your fellas.”

 _Shit_. “I dunno what the hell you’re on about, Widow. But if it’s Steve—” _give it to me straight_.

A toss of that famous red head and she’s glaring over her shoulder, “like I don’t already know how naughty you two have been with our resident engineer.”

Jim closes in, hissing out, “look черная вдова… товарищ, he doesn’t want anyone—“ _knowing about that_.

“Then he shouldn’t stare at you two like a Пуц and make it so painfully _obvious_.”

“ _What_ now? He still—?” And Jim’s brows are drawing together right there, but he raises the metal hand, wiping it away while the elevator speeds to the roof, completely ignoring her arched brow and now _intrigued look_ (didn’t figure out he’s been staying away then, have ya? Super spy, right?). “Nope, not doin’ this unless you wanna talk about you and the good Doc, got it? Stick to the facts here. Steve and Tony are _where_ now?”

She hesitates, seemingly surprised he’d bring up the very nice and nervous Bruce Banner since, well, no one else would pretty much dare breathe a word about it ( _them_ ) to her if she gave them _the eye_ (she commonly did), Clint notwithstanding; however, Widow is all about priorities rather than bloodshed and personal shit. Good thing she’s a pragmatic lady.

“Connection was severed several hours ago, SSARAS has been unable to reestablish communication with the Captain or Iron Man. J.J. can’t get a bead on the suit or the trackers in Cap’s suit. The techs were able to pull some of the security footage and decrypt it literally ten minutes ago. We’ll look at it in the Quinjet with everyone else.”

The doors slide open to the jet already fired up with the walkway down and he can see a pacing Bruce, a shifting Sam, an impatient Wanda, and the usual calm Vision already at the top, waiting for the rest of them. As he and Widow are suddenly on the same page ( _mission_ , our boys) making their way across the roof, through the roof access door, Phil Coulson is pointedly pulling a half-dressed Clint Barton who is still struggling into his Hawkeye vest while the Director of SSARAS carries his bow and loaded quiver in his other hand. Clint is still carrying one boot in _his_ other hand, looking weary as hell but determined as he finally gets his arm through the vest and zips it up over the bare chest underneath. The holsters that are an integral part of his uniform now (as he requested from Tony months ago) have a whole lot of shiny, hilts calculated to be at the perfect angle for his hands to do the pull and grab for that inevitable moment in a _big_ fight when arrows are running thin.

Jim’s mouth falls open immediately because well…that kind of answers a whole helluva lot of questions that he hadn’t wanted to ask the Hawk directly, no matter how close vodka and bloodshed made them. He has no idea he stops walking until Widow is right back to tugging him along behind the two as Thor simply makes an impressive appearance from the side of the building, suited up to the nines with armor, cape, and hammer; his jaw clenched so hard, a muscles ticks.

The three of them follow Hawk and Coulson up the ramp, meeting everyone else with a hard _Good Morning, let’s go pull the rescue of the week and get back to Movie Night, ‘kay?_

Several SSARAS agents are lined up against one side of the jet, saluting when Coulson strides past, not missing a beat. When the Director finally releases Hawk, the guy hitches a thumb at the SSARAS agent at the controls, staring the younger man down with a glare that could break lesser men; he’s pulling his boot on while raising the walkway, wiggling in his seat because _really_ his ass-print just got fucked.

“All right people,” the Director stands between the two groups, some of the Avengers (Jim, Bruce, and Wanda) pulling gear and equipment from the overhead bins. Thor clears his throat a little, he and Sam blocking the scene when clothes are flung off and the Winter Soldier pulls leather and metal over his body. He’s too deep in his own thoughts, him and the programming working together on contingencies of whatever Cap and Iron Man might have gotten themselves into on a _routine_ (how the fuck did you manage this, Stevie?!) reconnaissance mission?

The SSARAS agents, armed, armored to the teeth, and ready for the fight of their lives (because, c’mon, going on a mission with _The Avengers_ ), keep their eyes to the Director.

In the center of the gathering, a hologram takes shape with a map of an obviously forested, mountainous region. “The last signal we were able to pinpoint is somewhere here, in the Ozarks,” a spot of blue lights up on the side of a mountain. “From what we’ve been able to gather, extremist forces attacked the helicopter used by Captain America and Iron Man.”

The secondary hologram plays the soundless security footage; Tony in the pilot’s chair, trying to regain control of the helicopter while Steve punches the ever-loving _shit_ out of one of the five attackers on board. The spark is a gun going off, and the suit opens up, Tony throwing himself forward out of it, hands on the stick while the suit closes and is on the attackers with brutual force while Cap is knocked back a few steps.

A shower of bullets off the suit, standing in front of Captain America, moving in a jerky sync without its pilot directing the fight; however, the quick and efficient fighting style of J.J. makes quick work of the terrorists, but Jim’s eyes pick it out through the melee: one of the bastards shoved something round and glowing on the wall of the helicopter… He holds his breath because he knows what’s next.

Tony has the stick tied to the chair and is up, kneeling by Cap, yelling over the rushing air around them. The suit is mid-movement when the red light pauses an important second, and the engineer’s head snaps up to the disc and throws himself over Cap by reflex.  The explosion takes out the camera.

The soft sound of leather as Jim’s fists tighten in his gloves is only heard by the Widow while the other Avenger’s break out in chatter.

“People.” Coulson starts, “we are going to assume one if not both are injured. Secondly, we have no data on the parties involved with the attack or crash, so we have been given the green light to treat with _extreme prejudice_. We do want prisoners if possible. Clear?”

And Thor straightens, whirling his hammer while the jet sails; Jim turns and focuses, lets the Asset direct him in opening the wall-mounted case with his weapons, pulling each and checking it as he arms himself. A small spark in the edge of his vision is the Widow’s bites while Sam paces back and forth, already thinking about strategy and looking back at the holographic map. Bruce joins him, getting the guy to stop pacing while they theorize which way Cap and Iron Man could have gone with one or both injured (assuming the terrorists hadn’t reached them first and just… _God_ , his nightmare comes back around, Steve bloody and in chains, only Tony’s beside him this time without a suit, without the ability to get free).

And V, the guy hedges a little closer, facing out to the pacing Avengers and nervous agents, putting his back right close to Jim’s.

“The last transmission received by J.J. contains both the Captain and Iron Man’s voices, so we may assume they have survived the crash if not fully intact.”

Bruce rubs the bridge of his nose, “okay. We know they would fight if the eyes in the sky are after them, so they won’t be near it. Tony will at least know the area before communications got cut, so he’ll try to steer them north,” one finger points to the blue dot, showing a possible path.

Sam nods, “and Cap is a survivalist. He’s going to want to get away from the crash site as fast as possible, probably steering them here for as much cover as they can get depending on how badly either of them is injured.”

The semi-loud crack is the magazines going in his side arms, each fitting in the specially made holsters at his mid-back with a secondary set at his hips, and a third set at his chest. Knives are next, three of distinctly different sizes with places built into the Winter Soldier suit (modified by Tony so he could cut down on the straps and extra holsters). The belt goes around his waist, four smaller pouches on each side, similar to Cap’s.

“…im?” Sam’s voice filters in through the haze of the Asset planning out their route, and his head snaps over to Sam staring at him with arms crossed over his chest. The Falcon doesn’t look away, but those eyes have that _knowing_ where Jim’s at in the moment.

“C’mon,” the other man waves a hand at the hologram, “share the plan with us. We’ve got to coordinate on this one so we cover as much ground as we can.”

Jim and the Asset agree with one mind; to find Steve and Tony faster, they would have to have eyes in the sky and the ground. Widow and Thor join them as well as the agents, some of whom look so young to be doing this, too young to be hefting those rifles and weaponry, to have expression of expectation while they look over the landscape.

“All right,” Widow begins, “we divide into teams. One team of fliers: Thor, V, and Sam. Ground teams: Winter Soldier with Agents Michaels, Polaski, and Carte to spread and search this quadrant,” her hand starts at the crash site, a green light highlighting her hand’s movement. “Wanda with Agents Zerbrowski, Ryans, and Hudson will take this section,” the next lights up yellow. “Hawk, Agent Miles, Agent Bowen, and I will take this section, Hawk goes high, the Agents and I go low.” The final spread is purple. “Bruce and Coulson stay in the Quinjet to motion comms and keep the teams in the know; they will also monitor for the enemy that attacked.

“I’ll go high,” Jim/the Asset asserts, looking over at the agents assigned to him. “There’s adequate forest,” his finger sweeps over their section of heavily forested area.

“Agreed. Wanda?”

“Yes, I can also take to the trees,” and she nods to her assigned Agents as well.

Widow glances at the Director and up to the cockpit.

“Understood,” Hawk calls, putting more oomph into the thrusters. “What’s the contingency, Widow?”

She visibly hesitates, “if we come up with nothing, we start again until they’re found. By nightfall, the temperature would drop to freezing. We need to either find signs of life before then or assume they were captured. We’ll go from there.”

The team nods in assent, and as the Asset spits probabilities and statistics at the back of his head, Jim Barnes fits the mask of the Winter Soldier over his face, ready to take down an army.

**

“Sir!” In orange and black, same colors he wore with the Watchdogs, Michael Monahan, hefts his impressive new laser site gun and reports in with a salute. “We’re still combing out from the crash site. No sign of ‘em yet.”

“They could not have gotten too far,” the secondary general, some asshole from the Washington section, but he’s a guy that reports to the big man anyway so let him deal with the fucking bureaucratic red tape and shit. “Keep looking. It will be dark soon and we will have the advantage.”

“Yes, sir.”

Monahan watches the guy walk away, huddling deeper in his coat while the snow flies.  A sneer takes over his features because the guy was weak, not a soldier, a politician out of his element in the field. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter.  They were going to find the escaped targets and get the hell out of this place.

While moving back to the temporary command tent set-up, the general answers his cell phone, “Red Skull,” he answers, “we are searching for Captain America and Iron Man now.”

The voice on the other end is smooth, a deep baritone. “Good. Once they are taken out of the game, Phase II can begin.”

“Yes, sir. Hail Hydra.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I've been gone but the muse was just not helping me out here, still not really. I don't know. Any suggestions or observations would be appreciated and helpful! Lol, I am of the school of thought that Tony Stark has a constant running monologue of sarcasm because it's a comforting thing.


	41. Wild II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone appreciates 'oh shit we're in trouble' humor. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah…sorry. I’ve been gone so long since “Fracture” has kind of taken off, and wow, it’s very demanding because I do not action write as well as I’d like sometimes…lol. Some of you epic people are kind of reading both fandoms and just, thank-you so much. The Fractured Verse is very different from this, so I had to mentally recalibrate to write again, but, as always, thank-you, thank-you for reading and commenting and just plain being epic.

The Captain comes to abruptly, his chest tight because water is filling up his lungs, _no matter how hard he fights_ , but oddly enough, he’s not cold, not freezing, numbed out like when he regained consciousness after the Valkyrie went down and all he kept thinking while already underwater is _I’m sorry, Peggy, Buck, all of you, I’m so damn sorry it’s comes down to this…_ and he couldn’t get enough power behind his punches to break through the glass of the cockpit. No, that…that was cold and fear and resignation. His moment of _it’s fine, it’s time_ …

Before he knew Nat and Clint, Bruce and Phil and Hulk and Sam and—

_Tony_.

There’s a blanket over him, keeping him warm and a shivering, working engineer a foot or so away from his boot. Snow is caught in Stark’s hair and on his shoulders, his hands still slightly bloodstained from seeing to the wounds earlier. The sun is setting and night would be on them before too long; he’s taken up too much daylight. Dammit. Winter in the Ozarks could kill them when the temperature starts dropping and only _one_ of them is a super soldier with a chance in hell of surviving.

“Uh.”

The mechanic blinks up at him immediately, eyes alert, and the bit of rigged thingamabob cradled in his shaky palms.

“Morning Cap. F-Feeling like a new man already?” The joke falls flat with the Captain since Tony’s quirked lips are tinged blue.

“You _idiot_ ,” and he opens the blanket immediately, snatches the engineer from the snow, and pulls the fella close, pretty much manhandling him to sit directly in Cap’s lap so he can wrap the survival blanket around them both. He haunches over the smaller man, unconsciously trying to surround him with warmth and body heat. He can literally feel the aura of cold wafting off Tony ( _same feeling when he first woke up in that fake room, ball game from a year ago on the radio_ ) through his darn uniform and wraps both arms around him, rubbing at the shaky arms and back, trying to get the circulation going again. Trying to get _warmth_ because, just _damn it, Tony_.

“That’s n-not nice, Cap. Genius remember? ‘Sides can’t-can’t lay on your owies,” he mumbles, trying to lean away from the previously hole-ridden abdomen.

Cap pulls him back a little ruthlessly, “some of the metal worked its way out and I’m healing up. Lay here and try to get warm. Then, we’ve got to try for shelter somewhere before night hits.”

His hands are shaking too much to get the wires connected since well, it’s a delicate thing. Just, well, fuck. Very not cool. “F-Found a cave, not far. Didn’t want to leave you for too l-long in case—“

“You did **what** now?” Cap asks flatly because really, out of the suit and injured, and men with guns after us, Stark, what the heck are you _thinking_?

“I didn’t leave you for long. Didn’t go f-far, promise, okay?”

And it’s a thing if Tony isn’t making jokes right now; maybe he’s ready to reevaluate that ‘minor’ to ‘major.’ “Not what I mean, Shellhead. The men after our asses could have found you—“

“Language.” Tony cackles since _that’s one more up on Clint. Suck. It._ “S’okay, set-set traps on the way.”

Where he can’t see it, Steve arches an annoyed brow because, well, of course he has. Why in the _world_ wouldn’t he have just assumed _middle of nowhere, enemies after them with guns, injuries, nill to nothing to work with, and Tony’s got traps set around them._ Really, he needs to stop assuming ‘out of the suit’ means the fella will slow down a minute. Instead, he’s going to stop worrying so damn much (well _never_ going to happen), stop arguing (no chance in hell), but forgetting the guy outside of the suit is faster, just as smart as the guy _in_ the suit, yeah, he’s going to work on that the moment they get out of this crazy situation.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? At all?”

“I’ve got mad _skill_. Really, you should know that at this point. We fight together on a regular, Steve.”

The Captain chuffs a laugh, even in these circumstances. “Stark…sometimes I wonder what would happen if you went the supervillain route.”

“The world would have better tech and Donut Wednesdays,” the engineer comes back instantly, “it would be _awesome_. A J.J. for every house, arc reactor for clean, sustainable energy, and everyone worships me, really not too much to ask if you consider it.”  And the shaking has subsided enough to mean he’s not as close to hypothermia as before, but Tony’s hands are fiddling around inside the blanket, his gaze turned down. “All right. I think we have this thing almost ready. We move, start maybe a small fire, and I can input J.J.’s network manually, send the message with our general coordinates.”

Steve eyes the setting sun. “They know the chopper went down by now, probably got the vid feeds before the explosion. Odds are, they’re already on their way, and we’ve just got to keep ourselves out of enemy hands and fighting until they ride in.” And in case they’re going to get all kinds of caught, Cap already has a contingency, getting the plan together to make sure Tony is safe, out of the way should things fall right to shit.

“You know, I really _hate_ to have saved you from Deathcopter just for Jim to kill you when they get here.”

“Funny guy. Tony, you’re _such_ a funny guy. Stop trying to get him to fawn all over me. Really, you’re not helping anything.”

“Purely for my own entertainment, I assure you.”

“Now that, I’ll believe.” And Steve’s big hands are moving over his arms again, trying to warm him, and he feels Tony sag just a little, wondering what all this man had been up to while Steve was under the serum’s healing sleep. He gives the horizon another eye, gauging how long they had until dusk, watching the ever increasing snow fall to calculate how long it would take to cover their tracks.

Tony, warming, pauses long enough to stretch out his hands, try to work out the cold and ache; he reaches out to snatch the backpack, draw it in to dig around for a minutes because there—no, ouch fucking screwdriver—ah, yeah, that—

And holds a powerbar over his shoulder. “Eat this, then we’ll get moving, Cap.”

One hand leaves his shoulder to take it, “how many you eat?” while the wrapper is tearing.

“I’m saving mine for the rescue party. Totally time to celebrate, right?”

“Tony,” while Cap is chewing. “You _need_ to—“

“Save the lecture,” and a water bottle is held up next because Cap, who is the guy that can go on a week-long engineering binge? Not a super soldier, but super engineer? Yes. “You need to eat, drink, and we need to move. Survival. Bad Guys. Guns. Right? Right. Don’t argue with me or I swear, you’ll start finding a mini-Cap shield and uniform. Not just _one_. Every. Where.”

Significant pause. “You wouldn’t.”

And, _oh really_?

With a slightly pained turn to look over his shoulder, Tony’s brows are drawn down in that _try me_ expression. It looks suspiciously like one of Pepper’s.

“Fine.” All kinds of garbled as he shoves the rest of the bar in his mouth and wrapper in the pocket of his uniform since he really does not want any part of Tony putting his mind to something purely to torture him—he is fully aware of how that’s going to go (Sam and Nat would help). Instead, Cap throws the blanket off them without any regrets. Tony folds out of his lap to start shoving the blanket and rigged device back into the knapsack while Cap uses the tree to get himself standing (problem with the serum, body is usually more sensitive to things like pain—but well, it’s uh, got good points too…Tony, Tony already found that out in Scotland when he…Steve cheeks heat a little when he thinks about it, but now is really _not_ the time).

Looking around their surroundings, Steve doesn’t miss the hitch in Tony’s back when the engineer gets to his feet, straightening to get the knapsack on so they can get this train chugging—

Steve snags it before it can go over the deep rope burns (yes, he _knows_ they’re there, Tony), and gets the engineer’s wrist with his free hand, keeping his eyes peeled for snipers, focusing his hearing on voices, movement, trying to track the smell of gun oil, same things he did in the trenches of France and Italy…

“All right, lead the way. If we’re lucky, our tracks should be covered before nightfall.” And he could really use his pistol right about now. Shucks, Coulson was gonna get mad about him losing them eventually.

“Let’s hope so,” Tony’s fingers close part way around Cap’s wrist and _no,_ not ‘holding hands’ but _leading_ just in case Steve started getting on-set Alzheimer’s and wanders off somewhere. The two keep to as much cover as possible while the sun dips lower casting barely a skim of fading light over the mountains along the horizon.

And yet, as luck would have it, they stumble into enemy camp completely by accident. Rounding a tall, wide span of hill where Tony found a hard-to-see dugout leading into a cavern at the center of the mound during his quick survey of the area, the engineer is absolutely _positive_ nothing other than trees, scattering wildlife, and maybe interesting rocks were taking up valuable nature space. However, when they round the side of the hill, Tony’s sharp intake of breath signals an _oh shit_ moment.

Steve leans forward, trying to see further over the mechanic’s shoulder when the smaller man just backs up sharply, shoving them both back, out of view.

“Dammit,” Stark mock whispers, kneeling down, snagging the backpack from Steve, shoving the thing open. He’s only got one mostly working repulsor and starts fitting the gauntlet on automatically, not even looking at the pieces coming together on his hand and forearm.

And the Captain gets the slight noises, eyes narrow as he calculates how many are a few clicks from them. Shuffling boots crunching in the snow, gloved fingers twitching on hefted automatic assault rifles, the scent of a cigarette, low murmur of talking. If there are any trees in the vicinity, he can make this quick, two throws and rebounds, Tony takes out three or four with the repulsor and brute strength, a few well-aimed punches and kicks could end this before it gets started. If they can keep the noise down enough, they’ve got a lot better chances at taking out the terrorists before the other even _get here_.

Tony’s bare hand on the star in the center of his chest is suddenly there, attempting to push Cap back another step while his mind is working the strategy.

“—stay at my back. There aren’t _that_ many I could see, but I don’t like taking chances.”

And just, _Tony_.

“You wanna say that again t’ me, fella?” Cap snarls low. “Like that’s ever going to happen?”

The engineer looks over his shoulder with a patient expression. “Who’s the one with bleeding shrapnel _holes_ , Steve?”

“Who’s the one with _one_ repulsor and _no_ protection at _all_?”

“Who the one with the higher IQ?”

“Who the one with faster reflexes?”

“Who’s the one with survival _skill_?”

“Who can bench press _five of you_?”

Now both of them are baring their teeth in frustration.

“ _You_ are gonna make me nuts someday.” Cap shakes his head a little.

“It’s all talent, a _calling_ really,” Tony comes back just as stubborn. “Now are we going to wait for one of them to sneak up on us? _Or do something about it_?”

“Tony,” and there’s a whole lot of warning there.

Stark grins, the one that’s deeply satisfying and more than a little evil. “Okay. _Compromise_ , Cap. You go around, surprise them from behind. Give me a nice whistle, and I give the distractions with repulsor shots. That should give you plenty of time to play pin the shield on the bad guy.”

Hands on his hips, Steve shakes his head again just asking for patience from whoever up there might be listening and has kept this idiot alive for this long.

“Better hurry or I’m starting the party without the Truth, Justice, and the American way confetti. You would just _hate_ that.”

“I can’t believe you—“

“Don’t try me, Steve. I will charge right the fuck in there if you don’t get moving.” Tony’s whole body tenses because he is definitely not screwing around and will do _exactly_ the most dangerous—

Cap throws up both hands, “fine, _fine_ ,” he hisses. “Don’t _move_ until I give the signal, Iron Man.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Cappy-poo. Get your ancient ass in gear.”

Grumbling, Steve slides the shield off his back and slinks lower to retrace their steps and strafe back around the mountain, intent on getting behind the terrorists as quick as possible since, again, _Tony_. That fella gets bored waiting and watch out. He still moves fast and if you didn’t know him, would say he was completely fine, but Tony…Tony knows Captain America and how the man _moves_ in that uniform, taking on the persona, the fighter, the strategist, like a different skin, and the slight hitches in his steps, the tension in his shoulders, the perceptible haunch gives him the story. Fuck, he should have tried knocking Cap the hell out and dragging him to safety.

Too late.

Tony breathes out and goes back to assessing the current _oh shit_ situation since we’ll call _this_ one a little closer to _Major_ setback. So there.

Now, he needs to _assess_. Ducking closer to snow, trying to stay low, out of the way, out of obvious sight, Tony gets more of the picture:

A few pop-up tents and maybe fifteen or so meandering around trying to stay warm. Guns, naturally.

Cap will come out around the mountain, sneak around the outcropping of rock and do the signal thing. Great. Epic. Only…he’s not in a good place for shooting and he can’t _see_ enough…Tony just sighs a little, taking in the surroundings from his low position and—

Well, _that’s_ and idea. You know, use what you’ve got on hand or on land as these things go. The mechanic’s eyes move constantly, looking for any other bad guys he might not have picked out before as he ducks down, crouch walks, keeps as inconspicuous _nope, don’t look nothing to see here_ as he possibly can.

And just—he’s not going to be able to get away from _trees_ on this mission and the damn repulsor is already sticky as hell, and where is Clint when you need him? Really. He’s going to tell Hawk about the whole new level of _respect_ and _admiration_ for his climbing, leaping, jumping capabilities after this shit is all over and the others ride in to play taxi and—well, that’s a little far, Stark, maybe just tell him you’ll build him a totally sweet treehouse and be done with it.

And _there_ , he’s ducking behind the trunk, leaning out just _enough_ to make sure no crazy terrorist alarms have been raised or many, many angry men with guns are coming at him.

_Well, that’s kind of disappointing right there. Maybe they should invest in better equipment._

But whatever, really. He’s already said _so much_ about terrible Henchpeople that it’s such a standard at this point. Negative stars all around. Would not recommend. Bonus, however, is for him since incompetence is a deciding factor in the henchperson hiring process. Fantastic actually. With the bulk of the tree trunk hiding him, ignoring the pain in his shoulders, his abdomen, the cold and snow, he starts climbing all over again.

**

The pain is getting _better_ , but that’s only because Cap hasn’t given _the signal_ yet and now Tony is fucking _worried_ and he’s got more sticky shit on his gauntlet and pine needles are _everywhere_ and no, just _no_ , he’s not starting to panic a little since the sun is already pretty much gone and _some of us_ can’t _see that well_ in the dark, **_Cap_** , so pick up a pamphlet next time and he’s going to get the fuck down out of this tree and start going searching in case Steve might be passed out somewhere with massive blood loss and internal damage and _oh fuck why did he let Steve go alone_ —

The twenty or so baddies have started moving more consistently, like they have some sort of sixth sense something is going to happen. They’re talking in tight nit groups, eyes intent on the landscape around them.

From his somewhat, semi-hidden perch, Tony is very worried as to why all the sudden tenseness (because Steve has a _bad habit_ of getting his _ass_ caught)…when he catches a glint in the rising moonlight and _gets it_. He breathes a sigh of relief and lowers the fucked up (but mostly working) repulsor because _Jim_. He bows his head a little over the branch he’s clinging to and makes a soft, unconscious noise, drawing the hidden soldier’s gaze and gun immediately. Well, super soldier _hearing_ so he totally could have been singing the _Macarena_ because, _yes_ , they Googled the lyrics last ‘holy shit we’re injured and _bored_ ’ stint ( _Dale a tu cuerpo alegria Macarena / Que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegria y cosa Buena / Dale a tu cuerpo alegria, Macarena_ ). Great. Now he’s on a ‘take down bad guys, rescue Cap’ mission with the song stuck in his head. He needs a suit and _Thunderstruck_ , stat. _  
_ Raising both hands in surrender, Tony hopes like hell he’s not going to get shot because _holy shit, on **your side.**_ The shadow that is the Solider darts over the snow, feet almost skimming the ground he’s so fast and silent, before the gun is slung over his shoulder and he’s grabbing branches, climbing like it’s _his fucking mission_ and making his way up to Tony with a vengeful pace. Once he’s close enough, Tony can see the goggle/mask combo and thinks _oh good, night vision,_ before Jim is right fucking beside him,

“Glad you could make it,” Tony whispers, slumps just a little, but Jim’s non-climbing arm is already around his aching middle to hold him against the soldier’s side. “Next time, I’ll make sure to have those little sausages you like so much.”

With the goggle/mask combo, he has no idea what expression the Winter Soldier might be making, but Tony knows just by the posture, he’s talking to the Asset before: “your after-thought is appreciated, Tony, however unnecessary as the Asset does not require sustenance at this time.”

“Steve,” he manages, latching on to Jim’s shoulders, “he got hit by shrapnel. He was supposed to be going around the base of the hill to get them from behind. So, compromised Handler that needs medical attention STAT—”

And through the mask, without even pausing in his assessment of the situation, the landscape, and Tony, “Both Handlers have been compromised.”

And “Oh.” That’s the best he can come up with on the spot. “Well, _awesome_. I’m so moving up in the world, how exciting. Yes, I command we find Steve, get the hell out of here, get some pizza, and marathon _Once Upon a Time_ so Nat doesn’t brutally murder us all. How does that sound? Good Handler decision?”

The Asset just tilts his head a little, probably trying to decide if that’s _really_ an order or if he should just knife Tony where he’s clinging to the tree. Probably the latter. Oh well, not everyone appreciates _shit, shit, we’re in trouble_ humor.

“So, if you can radio the others, a little help would be _stellar_ —“

“Unable to comply. The area is a dead zone to our communications and other technology. The Avengers have brought the Mark XVI; however, the suit cannot function with only the AI piloting it. The interference is affecting all systems.”

“Shit,” Tony says with _feeling_ because something is dampening tech.

“Yes,” the Asset agrees, “you will remain here, keep watch for the Avengers. The Asset will find the Captain and return for you.”

And, um, _no_ , how about just no, “Jim—“

“Asset,” the voice responds almost gently before releasing his hold on Tony.

His eye roll is, of course, not lost but ignored, “ _Asset_ , no way in _hell_ am I just going to sit up here twiddling my fucking thumbs when Steve is out there, and _something_ is keeping our nifty gadgets in the dark—“

“You will be needed as a contingency,” the Asset fills in. “You are in an optimal spot for reconnaissance and to assist should Steve be further compromised. Tony, this is necessary.” And with the completely deadpan tone of the Asset rather than Jim’s accent, the mechanic grits his teeth because, well, _point_.

“Fine, fine,” he sneers out, “I’m giving you literally five minutes until I start shooting.”

“Fifteen,” the Asset counters, “time is needed for stealth to avoid alarming the enemy until the mission is complete.”

And, yeah, he knows what _the mission_ is referring to. “Okay. Get Steve. Make sure he’s not passed out somewhere and give me the signal. Fifteen minutes and _nada_ , I’m going to start with the breaking bad.”

“Understood,” the Asset shimmies silently back down the tree without even a hitch or a noise since, you know, that shit is just so _easy_ for some people. Really, Stark, why aren’t you that good with tree tech?

He sighs and adjusts his hold, wondering what the bad guys have to cut their communications system since, well, _hello_ _satellites_ , and nothing less than the apocalypse should be able to even touch _his_ tech. The device still in his backpack hadn’t been touched yet, so might do to try fixing the other repulsor for _just in case_ shit decided to hit the proverbial fan while he’s, you know, _up a tree and twiddling his fucking thumbs_.

His eyes, however terrible in the dark, try tracking the Winter Soldier’s shadowy form once he hit the ground, tried following the silhouette once he strafes out from behind the tree. But, like Nat when she’s being _scary_ and Clint when he’s in the _where does **this** vent go?_ mode, the Asset just melts into the shadows and vanishes. Not even the slightly paranoid patrols catch sight of him.

And the Asset strafes with deadly efficiency, eyes for the smallest detail as he picks out once of several tents set-up in the perimeter. One guard is on each, fortunately. Ducking behind the first at the biggest tent is an easy thing, just as pulling one of the several knives and slitting his throat without a sound. Dragging the body out of obvious sight takes a few seconds longer than he would like, but a necessary evil.

Kneeling by the tent’s side, he listens while cleaning the blade in the snow before sliding it home. The automatic at his back has the silencer, the one he palms while catching no sound from within, just gentle breathing.

Prepared, the Asset ducks under the canvas flaps quickly, eyes alert for anything coming his way, waiting for whoever is inside to yell out a warning—and the small part of the Asset that _is_ James Buchannan Barnes is knowledgeable in the utilization of obscenities.

His repertoire is extensive as demonstrated by the litany of them running through the Asset’s thought process as he assesses the situation. Strung up between two poles, the Captain is clearly unconscious with sustained injuries. His cowl has been ripped off, his shield taken, and blood paints the side of his face; however, the Asset can see the rise and fall of his chest to assume he is still alive however unguarded—immediately making him wary as the Handler would be an important trophy for any enemy, leaving him without watch mean the enemy has done something to him or have another way to incapacitate him.

The Asset moves over the ground, flowing, silence, looking for any sensors or cameras, but the tent is surprisingly clear. He takes in the Captain’s full form, looking for any traps that may trigger should he be moved.

“Ouroboros.” An accented voices makes the Asset freeze and—

All thought wipes away…

“какова миссия?” _What is the mission?_


	42. Wild III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancient death machines? The Red Skull really needs to buy some class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *Peep around the corner. *  
> I am so, so sorry that I cannot German and there's probably a ton of errors. Just, please excuse all that and enjoy ;)  
> *Slinks away*

So.

The situation has definitely escalated to _Major_ set-back based on the components of ‘oh’ and ‘shit.’

With Cap held and dragged between terrible Henchperson number 1 and equally terrible Henchperson number 2, Tony suppresses the incredible wave of _I told you so_ he intends to break out against Steve once they are _out_ of this fuckery—until Jim’s face turns into the dim light and _that_ expression is just like the one he’d seen in grainy black and white footage. A whole lot of _no one is home, please leave a message_.

An unmitigated _fear_ claws through his chest, right through the arc reactor and down into the pit of his stomach. The working repulsor crushed the tree branch unconsciously and Tony runs through a litany of curse words, reaching out to hold the rest of the branch so the things doesn’t give him away.

Oddly enough, the Winter Soldier doesn’t react the noise, but follows dangerous and docile behind the Henchpeople dragging Steve while two more flank him with guns right against the back of his shoulder blades.

 _Okay._ Eyes taking in everything, from the number of pop-up tents to the amount of guns, Tony’s brain processes build on the initial plans that had been brewing since he’d climbed the tree and found out how deep in enemy territory they’d really fallen into.

Initially, Director Agent sent them out to the Ozarks because of the residual traces of magic/technology emanating from somewhere presumably underground.  The helicopter they’d been piloting had SSARAS tracking equipment, just, you know, look and see if the readings are somewhat accurate and report back. Do not engage the enemy, yada, yada. Still, bringing the suit was the smart thing to do, right? Right.

But _Jim_. Tony’s eyes follow the broad shoulders, stiff with the Winter Soldier saunter, and those damn nanites (a fucking brilliant if not dickish contingency should the Winter Soldier go AWOL) Hydra initially injected in his blood who _knows when_ haven’t apparently been deactivated as well as the Avengers had hoped. Tony’s tech failed him on this one, and now he has no way of knowing if there would be a way to get James Barnes back after the re-activation of the original Winter Soldier programming. Not even Bruce and Helen could predict what kind of damage the tech did to the synapsis; if _permanent_ would be the word of the day.

Tony’s chest hitches hard against the bark, his eyes stupidly hot while the pain becomes a secondary thing to knowing he _failed_ Jim. He fucking _failed_ and they might have lost Jim for good this time.

 _Starks have iron in their bones_.

Deep breath. If it takes weeks or months or years of however in the hell long, he wouldn’t _stop_ , wouldn’t give _up_ on James Buchanan Barnes—Steve sure as hell wouldn’t. Neither would Nat or Bruce, Clint or Wanda, V or Sam. They were all going to _fight this_ , and if worse comes to worse, they would sure as _hell_ avenge him.

Tony swallows back against the wave of despair, against the pain that goes deeper than physical, his brilliant mind working on both sides of the equation—how to keep Steve from sinking into depression once he finds out what’s happened to the love of his (their) life (lives) and then what tests and necessaries were going to have to happen to fight the effects of the re-programming.

First thing first, he needs supplies, communication, a better idea of what is going on with these crazy Nazi bastards, and a way to contact the others. A contingency or two might not be remiss.

Well, no time like the present.

**

From the underground, several Hydra agents make their way closer to the surface, surrounding the _Führer_ on all sides with weapons at the ready.

Walking out into the surface, the maniacal laughter bursts into the cold night air, echoing over the spans of mountain and land. Most of the other agents gather around the emerging group, hoping for a look at the precious artifact they’ve spent weeks trying to find buried deep within the Ozarks.

The center figure obligingly holds aloft a preciously wrapped bundle and bellows out, _“Victory_!”

The agents throw their guns high and cheer as the Red Skull, illuminated in the sparse light of the camp and the moon, grins a mad smile.

“ _Mein menschen_ , our perseverance has paid off. With ze aid of ze _Blut Gestirn_ , ze Blood Star referred to in hushed whispers by ze greatest warriors in _history_ , **we** , _Hydra_ , shall have ze means to make ze world _crumble_ at our feet!”

A round of applause and cheering breaks out again, the promise of world domination finally at _hand_.

“Now, we must prepare ourselves to return to ze base. Our _feinde_ , those who stand to _oppose us_ , will be too late to stop _this_ , our crowning achievement. Go! We must be gone by dawn.”

With a final call, the agents scatter, running to start preparations to leave the area while the Red Skull and his entourage stride through camp to his personal tent.

One of his trusted captains left to monitor the surface paces beside him.

“What is ze status of zer _Captain_ ,” the word fairly spit, “and his _team_ of heroes?”

“The prisoner is still unconscious, _mein Führer_ , and we have reports of ze Avenger’s jet leaving the area within za last hour.”

“Ah, zis is perfect.”

“We have also regained an asset _mein_ _Herrscher_. Ze Winter Soldier has been reactivated and awaits your command.”

The Red Skull’s manic grin is utterly _delighted_ , not only would he have the good captain witness the world’s decimation, helpless to do anything to stop it, but he would do so with his greatest friend assisting his greatest enemy. The delicious irony makes the Skull’s desire for _revenge_ after his defeat upon the Valkyrie rise. “Excellent! We will need to be certain of his loyalties once we reach our base. For ze time being, have him guard ze prisoner.”

“ _Es lebe_ _der_ _Führer_.”

Skull pauses outside his tent, cradling the precious find in one hand as if the most precious jewel in the world—from between the folds of cloth encompassing the melon shaped artifact, the crimson glint in the sparse light supports the theory of a gem. Holding the object mentioned only in ancient musings theorizing how it is that Atlantis fell to the bottom of the Atlantic, he faces his men, the ones he trusts _most_. “Two of you will stay wiz me, ze rest will go and aid in preparations.”

Two of his men in the back raise their hands, “Heil, _das_ _Führer._ ”

“Good. Ze rest of you be off.”

Inside his tent, the light casts shadows off Captain America’s bent, unconscious form and the Winter Soldier’s gray eyes above the face mask.

“ _Wunderbar!_ ” Since the Skull could _not_ have asked for a better ending to his almost decade-long search for the very components here in his tent. He has traveled the world to assemble the necessary pieces of the Olmec status—first the feet, then the torso, the hands, the head, and now, _now_ he finally has the crowning _piece_. To further his victory, his enemy is here at his mercies while the Avengers are unable to track them, unable to come to his rescue.

Eighty years and he will finally have _everything_ he has ever _dreamed_ within his grasp. Now is not the time for mistakes, not the time for underestimating what could possibly be a counter to his carefully laid plans.

Facing the Winter Soldier, the Red Skull looks _deep_ , searching for any indication of a man underneath the assassin. “Asset, _bericht!_ ”

In English, the Winter Soldier begins, “perimeter remains clear. The Asset is functioning at 100%.  What is the mission, _Führer_?”

Just what he wants to hear, the Red Skull comes face-to-face with Hydra’s greatest assassin and soldier, laughing loud and evil. “You will continue your primary directive, Asset. To destroy any who oppose Hydra and our plans. I will function as your Handler for ze time being, but if ze good Captain rouses, you will make certain he is _contained_ , _verstanden_?”

The Winter Soldier answers with, “Hail Hydra.”

Throwing back his head, his terrible jaws glinting white in the dim, the Red Skulls laughs again.

**

“You know, I’m wondering about what kind of benefits we get,” one Hydra agent calmly says to another. “I mean, how many of us actually _survive_ to cash in on a 401-k?”

The second agent rises up just enough to look like he’s some kind of idiot (so, they get a 401-k now?) at the first when the butt of the rifle takes him down, face first in the fallen snow.

Tony, much warmer now that he has these nifty clothes, grabs the unconscious agent’s ankles and starts dragging him quickly out of the sparse light and into the dark. His ribs ache with it, but he has to keep moving, especially after ( _holy shit_ ) the Red Skull—who is apparently _alive_ and looking to do the usual world domination _boring_ thing—had his speech about some awe-inspiring ancient, magical, mythical artifact that could probably also slice, dice, and julienne. Make _fantastic_ home-cut fries.

While he’s divesting the agent of all his weapons and tech, the next step in the plan is taking shape, altering the ten steps after _that_ just slightly to accommodate.

The extra .45 goes into the waistband of the fluffy snow pants, the futuristic looking walkie talkie is promptly pulled apart, and crucial parts salvaged to go into his own communication device, a few bits set aside for his half-assed working repulsor because, well, _winning_. He can make the adjustments fast even with gloves on.

Besides, it’s always nice to have a few things programmed for _just in case_.

It’s apparent the tech dampening is really part magic, part science. Since Tony Stark is all over the tech part, he needs what keeps Hydra’s boys in the know to integrate into his own device. _Viola_ , a radio wave transmission to J.J. and maybe the Avengers would actually get his little invite to come and _join the party_. Bring some chips and streamers, we’ll definitely need them. Make sure Hulk has an appetite for SMASH. Oh, and Jim might be re-brainwashed by bad guy asshats, watch out for it. P.S. The Red Skull is alive and is apparently a dick. Love, Tony.

He’s fast and efficient under the right set of circumstances, which these most definitely _are_ , and the small device blinks once before it pretty much disintegrates in the palm of his repulsor. A few gears and changed wires in the non-working one and he’s got enough power for a handful of shots.

He ties up the bad guy and tosses him into the little niche in the side of the mountain he’d told Steve about, joining the first agent he’d taken out since _short_ is hard to find in bad guys so the clothes would just be terrible and a little long but hopefully not enough to be _noticeable._ Pulling the gloves back over the repulsors, he eyes the nice traps he’s managed to get into place before the Red Skull made his grand entrance to the surface.

Two more clips for the Hammer Tech—ick, ew, and these people absolutely need to be _brought the hell down_ , how _insulting_ —AR-15 and he’s armed as much as possible. Everything he can do on the down-low is done—if the others show up with party hats on, well, _great_ , if not, then he’s got to take down this little section of Hydra, kidnap their precious artifact, save Steve, make Jim come out of the Winter Soldier if that’s even _possible_ at this point, and “borrow” a helicopter to get them home.

Right?

Right.

Well, he _does_ like to stay busy. Really, Pepper always said it keeps him out of trouble.

Tony lowers the yellow goggles back over his eyes and pulls the hood tighter around his face, the AR-15 around his shoulders. He hedges himself back into the outer rings of light, snatching up a random crate to carry it to one of the waiting Black Hawks with another tisk under his breath, making himself not smile as the crate is grabbed by an agent in the back, stowing all their gear. He turns, eyes for the tent where the Red Skull vanished. The tent with Jim and Steve, the tent with the Blood Star.

He goes for another crate a little out of the way, almost whistling to himself since morale just seems on the up and up with the henchpeople. Well, if he just miraculously had a plan to take out half the world, maybe he’d be happy-go-lucky too—oh, that already happened by accident with Ultron, didn’t it? Damn.

Tony bends over a waiting crate, hiding the motion of pulling up the sleeves of the coat just enough to reach the trigger button on the gauntlet and hum a little to himself before he hits it.

The resounding explosion in two trees on the outskirts of the camp light up the night.

Now he has to pull out his rusty acting skills, channeling a hell of a lot of Widow and Hawk in this situation, making himself jerk in surprise and start shouting in surprise and shock as the two trees on _fire_ start to crack and break, acting like he doesn’t _know_ the inferno would spread to the next trap. Well, _genius_ and such. Really, you should never leave any amount of explosive substances just _laying_ around in a storage tent. That’s terrible bad guy etiquette. Someone should write a book someday.

Maybe he should include little tips like this in the PowerPoint. Food for later thought.

As Tony does the _run around in a panic_ thing the rest of the agents are doing, the Red Skull flings open his tent flap, his creepy face even _creepier_ when he’s angry—even though Hulk could give the guy a run for his money any day of the week but, no really, skin cream would be so helpful, why hasn’t anyone _told_ him that?—and as expected, the Skull tells someone else in the tent something probably dickishly evil before he and the other two agents leave the tent to start assessing the flaming bad happening on the outskirts of the bad guy encampment.

Tony fakes going for a small fire extinguisher, pulling an important pin out of the device before tossing it to another panicky agent and pointing at the blaze, shouting he was going to go find another—not really but when the canister explodes, well, that was going to be just entertaining for the rest of the class.

Instead he uses the constant movement as a diversion to open the flap to the Skull’s tent, take a shaky breath, and let himself in.

Meanwhile, the scanners on the Quinjet flare to life with an old school Morse code coming over an ancient radio wave. Bruce and Director Coulson, flying the jet in an attempt to act as a diversion so the others could sweep the area and find their missing people, both turn as the holographic screens _finally_ seem to spit some important data. The moment they hit airspace over the Ozarks, the Quinjet’s sensors and systems—including communications and navigations—have gone haywire. Not the first indication the situation is more dire than just the missing Avengers, but something that could dampen former S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark Tech? They’re not dealing with something as simple as terrorists. Bruce, Nat, and Sam together had kept the jet in the air, but tracking Tony and Steve without communications with either SSARAS or with either of Stark’s Artificial Intelligences has to be done the old fashioned way, a little bit of get out and _look_.  Worse, communications with the teams are at radio silence due to the interference—rendezvous for have already been established. With their systems temporarily blind, ground forces would keep a constant monitor for the Quinjet, tracking their progress while fliers would keep as close to the ground as possible, trying to maintain stealth.

The message flows over the screen, and Bruce pushes his glasses up his nose while reading over the Morse code, lips moving soundlessly.

“Oh my God, _Tony_ ,” Bruce bursts out while the Director’s eyebrows furrow.

“What’s this?” Coulson points to a line of the message, something more than what it seems.

Bruce is already at the panel, bringing up J.J.’s programing code. “He’s given us a way to divert J.J.’s sensor net to avoid being blocked by whatever signal Hydra is using to dampen our scanners,” Bruce is talking fast as he searches and types, tweaking the code with trembling hands because, well, he’s not _this_ kind of doctor either. But, of the two of them, he’s probably the one more equipped to handle altering a sophisticated AI’s brain. Still, he’s trying to be careful and cautious, hoping he’s not doing more damage.

Coulson lets Banner go back at it, reading the rest of the message until the _smallest_ of smiles crosses over his face, _Bring Streamers and Cake, I totally deserve it_.

The expression falls when he reads the next line twice: _Winter Soldier compromised. Red Skull is alive. And, magical death machine. Don’t forget the party hats_.

“J.J.? How are you doing?” Bruce asks, a little panicky when the code he’s working on flashes green and then gold like JARVIS’ old code, finally settling on the standard blue.

“Doctor Banner,” the AI is still smooth and unruffled, not oblivious to the charges in the cockpit, “I believe Sir would like you to change the next block of coding to fit these parameters—“ and a secondary screen comes up with a span of numbers and commands.

“Okay.” Bruce fists his hands for an important second, forcing himself to calm the hell down, to make Hulk back down. He has to explain to the Big Guy how important this is, that Tony and Steve and James are out there and they won’t be able to track them without this.

The Hulk isn’t _happy_ , doesn’t _like it_ when he can’t do anything to help the team, but recognizes Bruce’s panic and determination. He backs down a little further below the surface, leaving Bruce to breathe and get back to it.

**

In the same instance, Tony closes his eyes briefly while the press of the .45 against his temple through the hood of the coat make moving even an _inch_ a really, _really_ bad idea.

The Winter Soldier’s hand is rock steady, eyes a complete blank of cold, slate gray.

“Identify yourself.”

With a deep breath, Tony hopes to hell he’s not going to get his genius brains splattered all over the walls of this tent. Gently, he takes a chance, “I’m your Моя Любовь, sweetheart.”

The Winter Soldier goes even more _still_ , seems to stop breathing.

“My name is Tony. Tony Stark. You, the Asset, told me I was one of your Handlers. Is that still true?” Gingerly, he slowly turns his head to look over, making sure to moving nothing else on his body. “Am I still one of the people you’re going to protect?”

The gun barrel is now pressed against his forehead, firm and held in a hard metal hand _he_ made, but…the soldier’s eyebrows are drawn together, like he’s trying to reason, trying to figure something _out_.

“I’m sorry, Jim,” and Tony swallow hard, looking past the metal arm to those eyes, trying to see the man behind the blank wall of a weapon but even the Asset he _knew_ had gained something of a personality in the last year. This…This is the fabled re-write those terrible Henchpeople were talking about, and a thrill of fear, of _what if he can’t come back from this_ hits Tony right in the arc reactor.

“I’m sorry I didn’t fix it enough. I never—I never wanted you to _forget_. Me and Steve, Nat’s terrible popcorn, and V’s YouTube thing, Sam’s—“

“—Uno obsession, Wanda’s strawberries…” in that cold mechanical voice, something seems to _turn_. “Tony…Stark.”

“Yes,” the engineer agrees, eyes wide, hopeful because _dammit Jim_ , but—

The Winter Soldier _snaps_ , lowering the gun and taking Tony to the ground harshly, pinning him with the metal arm across his throat. Those cold grey eyes stare deep into his, empty, lifeless, and Tony’s heart gives a hard, meaty beat, adrenaline pumping through him at the crushing weight against his throat. He _has_ to get Jim to save Steve, he _has_ to.

“You are a danger to the Mission,” the Winter Soldier hisses low, “Hydra must be _protected_.”

“Jim,” Tony’s eyes get _wider_ because _this is too reminiscent of those video feeds from D.C._ , “please, Jim. _Asset_. You _aren’t_ just a weapon. You like to play pool on the communal floor, and go with Sam to the VA. You go to Central Park and hand out blankets to the homeless. You cook Italian because it’s my favorite, and eat burgers with the _worst_ toppings, who likes coleslaw on a burger anyway—“

“I. Am. The. _Asset_.”

Eyes blazing, Tony leans up against the metal arm, pressing his throat harder into, fighting against the strike of fear, “ _No you’re **not.**_ You’re _not_ some _fucking_ empty void to fill. They can’t just control, alt, delete you. They _can’t_. You’re too much of a pain in the ass for that, so get _with it_ , Soldier! _”_

The hint of a sneer, the gray eyes turning colder as the metal arm takes his challenge and presses him down to the floor, really choking Tony now. He gurgles, tries to suck in a breath, glaring back defiantly.

“Stark, Howard,” the Winter Soldier’s voice is dangerously low, “Stark, Maria.”

Brown eyes blow wide.

“Parameters have changed: Stark, Anthony is now also a risk. The Mission has not been completed.”

If anything could have stopped Tony’s thought process, it’s the statement behind the Winter Soldier’s observations—the reality he chose to never acknowledge: How was Howard thrown out of the car? How could his Mom have sustained _that_ kind of broken neck in the accident?

It was never an accident.

 **_It was never an accident_ ** **.**

And the metal arm comes down with the intent on taking out a _threat_ , the sharp plating cuts into the skin around his throat, making Tony’s gauntlets strain to push against it even though he _knows_ there’s no way he can beat it, not without the power of the whole suit behind him. He’s the one that made the damn thing, and he’s good but not a match. And laying there, staring up into the Winter Soldier’s face valiantly trying to look for Steve’s Bucky, his Jim, through the shell of a programmed assassin—one that murdered his parents, _his family_ — the pressure in his chest that has nothing to do with the arc reactor or the second hand pressing him down to the ground while it starts to slip a knife out of the side holster of the Winter Soldier uniform (and fumbles since the pockets have been upgraded once Tony made the new leather suit). The pressure is the possibility that Jim Barnes is going to kill him, end the bloodline right here and now; the painful part is that he might never get himself back enough to _regret it_.

Tony forces himself to try staying calm, not to struggle for air. His only option to avoid Jim killing him like this is to give himself away and fire a repulsor shot, he’d have to—

“Zat is enough, Asset,” the smooth, unruffled voice shatters the moment when Tony is sure the Winter Soldier is trying to convince himself the mission would be complete when the Stark line is eradicated—while Tony is half that young man getting the call at one a.m. on Christmas and starts down the dark and twisted road of drinking right then and there. The other half trying to save the two men that have come to mean _everything_.

The Red Skulls grins down at them, “how very _fortunate_ Iron Man has chosen to join our victory party since we have gathered the last piece needed for our _plans_.”

The metal arm lightens up enough that he can draw in a full _breath_ , to force himself away from the pain and hurt, from looking up at _Jim_ and seeing someone _else_ — someone his brain might not be able to save.

( _It was never an accident_ )

His chest hitches only _once_. “Lucky you,” he chokes out, “I am the party planner of the _year_. Ask anyone, they’ll vouch for me.”

The Red Skull strides past them on the ground, laughing out loud as the two goons follow behind, guns aimed at Tony under the Soldier’s solid weight.

“Ah, Mr. Stark, I am giving you ze chance of a _lifetime_. You along with ze Captain are going to be part of our final sequence,” easing down into his personal throne in the tent, the Skull is too smug for a guy without a real face, but Tony—Tony is so _broken_ , he can’t—

A motion to the Asset and Stark is hauled up by his coat, his wrists pinned. One agent searches him while the second holds the AR-15 on him, not even giving a shit that the shot will take out the Winter Soldier as well.

The guns are removed, extra clips gone. The Soldier hands over the assault rifle and finds the gauntlets. Tony doesn’t fight it, hits the triggers with his thumbs so the things come apart and fall in the Winter Soldier’s hands.

The Skull watches with faint amusement and Steve is hanging there like he’s dead except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest and Jim, _the Winter Soldier_ , is erased and wants to kill them all— _like he did to Howard and Maria Stark._

“Chance of a lifetime?” Numb when his hands are tied in front of him, weaponless; no, the Winter Soldier is offering his gauntlets over to the Skull, giving his tech to the baddies that are using him again, “I have to warn you, I reserve the right to critique any and all bad guy monologues. Really, I already have a PowerPoint you may want to see.”

The Red Skull, still cradling his wrapped bundle, laughs again, making a motion to one of his soldiers. Tony has time to react, could have done _something_ , but he realistically needs to stay put until the plans are in place—until he can _fix_ everything Hydra is _fucking up_ because he _has to_ , Jim and Steve—

Cap comes to just as the butt of the AR-15 hits Tony and he goes down, listening to Steve snarl is the last thing he knows.

**

Thirty minutes after the Quinjet let the Avengers and Co hit the ground running dark, a strategic flash of lightening announces the last Avenger is on site and communications come in through the static,

“…’idow. Report.”

Her breath visible, the Black Widow strafes through the dark, her night vision glasses outlining the blood splatters from a previous fight. The bootprints in the snow are telling at _who_ may have had a hand in it. She stays on that path since the Winter Soldier’s companions lost sight of him within the first five minutes. Someday, she’s going to go to Coulson and train these assholes.

Someday.

“Tracking. We have confrontation from the Winter Soldier, no sign of the Captain or Iron Man.”

“…tch… _ssshhhttttt_ …oble… _pfssshhht_ …ssible mag… _ssshhhhttt_. _Bruce_ —”

Mumbling in the background. The static in her ears finally clears out a little, and she blinks, keeping one eye on the agents flanking her, not worried about Hawk leaping silently through the nearly bare trees; Miles and Bowen, as good as they were, weren’t assassins.

“All right, we’re almost back on-line agents,” Coulson sounds as pleasant as ever, “running traces for Cap and Iron Man now.”

“Widow,” and Hawkeye’s voice in her ear is clear for the first time in an hour or more. “I’m seeing something here.”

Relieved, she taps the comm a second time to extend the line to everyone, “listen up, people, Team 1 has already started the party. We’re moving in their path.”

“Smoke,” he replies, not even winded with the grueling pace, “we might have—“

The massive explosion rocks the air; neither assassin even _pauses_.

“ _What was that?”_ Bruce sounds a little more than the standard _panicked_.

“Nothing good,” Falcon’s voice cracks only slight, “I’ve got a visual of the explosion—“

“En route,” V integrates the coding, screens in the Quinjet lighting up with his brand of changes; two screens fill with the scene from Falcon’s cameras. “I am detecting signals. Whatever has caused the blackout is no longer functioning.”

If V sounds relieved he can access technology again, no one comments on it, not even Wanda.

“Can you splice us into their communications line?” Coulson asks while scanning the smoky hole getting closer as Falcon flies lower to ground level, barely skimming the tree line.

Lightening jolts, bright enough to light up the night, “Several of their hovering crafts have already dispersed. I will pursue.”

“Thor, keep us posted. Falcon, back him up. Ground teams, we need you to get to Widow’s location and search.”

“On site,” Hawk breathes through the comm. “It’s a fucking mess.”

“This…is not promising,” finally the Scarlet Witch seems to be distracted, _searching_.

“Keep looking. Our fliers are going to try finding the Cap and Iron Man if they’re not down there.”

Thor, however, in his time as a hero of Midgard, as a _champion_ , has taken the lessons of stealth and preparation into account when dealing with these megalomaniacal foes. He watches the mass of aircrafts split into separate directions and uses his free hand to activate the camera on his armor.

“Damn,” he snarls when the crafts break off.

“Thor?” Bruce sounds hesitant, breathing steadily over the still staticky comm line.

“They are dispersing. I will not be able to follow all of them or attack them all to find our shield brethren.” But the God is only half in the conversation as a strike of lightening hits close to two of the aircrafts, driving them closer to the original formation.

Even if he strikes several in one blow, there is no guarantee he can find Iron Man and the Captain in time to save them from crashing into the mountains. Should the lightning strike be too severe, he could kill them in the process.

“On your belt,” Bruce is saying, “Tony put a device on your belt with tracking discs, you can fire at as many as you can.”

Thor blinks through the wind in his face.

“A tracking device?” He’s already feeling around his waist with his free hand, another strike to keep three of the crafts from diverting course.

“Yes! It’s almost like a gun, maybe you can use that—“

“Brilliant suggestion, my friend,” and the button under his hand is something _new_ , a device as Bruce predicted falling out into his hand.

“Thank Tony for that one, he’s the one that thought the fliers should have _something_ in case our bad guys are trying to away.”

Thor looks at the small device in his hand while maintaining a safe distance, hopefully to keep himself from being noticed. Fumbling with how to use such a thing (he is terrible with the calling devices, ones Bucky is still trying to teach him to use properly), he finds it has a triggering mechanism, similar to the _guns_ Midgardians find so appealing for war.

“Bruce, you must tell me how to use this device, quickly. I cannot keep them in formation for much longer.”

“Okay,” Bruce pulls up Tony’s schematic and starts through the steps while Phil is coordinating the ground forces.

“Sir,” Carte’s tone has volumes about their findings, “I think we’re going to need a team here to gather data. We’ve found some kind of cavern. Looks like they were excavating here.”

“Don’t proceed,” Coulson doesn’t even hesitate, “whatever they were looking for is already found. Do we have any identification for the missing Avengers?”

“No, sir. No sign of Iron Man or Captain America.”

“What about the Winter Soldier?”

“No sign of him either. It’s not… encouraging.”

Coulson is already sending a call to SSARAS for another team to collect all the intel they can on whatever Hydra and the Red Skull have been looking for while he activates the full comm line.

“All right people, we have received a transmission from Iron Man. From what we know, Hydra has some kind of Doomsday Device and the Winter Soldier has been compromised—so far we’ve got no sign of them on site. Thor is tagging the aircrafts as we speak, and a team is on the way to start investigating whatever Hydra was looking for there.”

On the Quinjet’s radar, green blips start to appear as Thor seems to find his stride in using the device.

“Shit,” Hawk is the first to react, clever as always, “we missed them.”

“The tracking devices are functioning,” V tries to look at the positive, “so we shall be able to hunt them down.”

“We also have two Hydra agents tied up here, looks like one of them tried infiltration,” Widow sounds neutral—which is always a bad thing. Always.

“I am on my way, Widow. We will find out what they know,” Witch seems to be seething, grinding out the words between her teeth. Bruce has a moment to feel sorry for the agents in the hands of _those_ two, but immediately pulls back when Hulk reminds him they may have been the ones to capture Tony or Cap.

“Hold tight, people. We’re taking ten to wait for our second team, and then we’re moving again. Let’s find out everything we can.”

Coulson lets off the comm line and sits back, ingesting everything they know about the situation. Thor is on his way back after successfully hitting all the marks, and the Avengers are raring to get their missing people back. He’s going to have to coordinate carefully to keep any of them from riding off alone.

His eyes move to Bruce pointedly, noting the fist clenched on the console of the jet.

“Can you take us down? We’ll need the others and devise a plan to split teams to follow their people.”

Without a word, Bruce touches the controls gingerly and the Quinjet starts a rapid descent.

“J.J., we’re going to need communications with our parties.”

“Of course, Director.” A panel slides out of the side wall, several remote devices. “The Avengers will be able to maintain contact as well as trace the signals from Mr. Odinson’s trackers.”

“Good. We’ll have a plan of attack,” gingerly, a hand on Bruce’s shoulder makes the doctor look up from trying to maintain his zen. Looking down, Phil Coulson repeats, “we’ll have a plan of attack.”

Bruce sucks in a breath as the Quinjet lights down and the gathered Avengers are washed in the light.

**

El Tajin, a glorious Mesoamerican city in its day, was a home of the Olmecs in ancient times. Still standing, as an ode to their ingenuity, is the Pyramid of the Papantla—telling Tony they’re in Veracruz, not far from Poza Rica. Apparently, there was quite a plane ride while he was sailing the wave of unconscious. Steve is awake, looking like he’s about to stomp the fires out of Hell—which is nice really, glad someone else is riding the _pissed off train_ —so all in all, things could be worse.

One glance at the Winter Soldier towing Captain America off the plane by an unforgiving elbow while shoving the barrel of an automatic in Cap’s gut with his free hand and Tony quickly amends that statement. The henchperson gripping his bicep has apparently taken the same _how to be a shitty henchperson_ class and shoves him forward as well. Over the noise of the airplane powering down, the Red Skull, who has obviously already delivered a killer bad guy monologue to Steve, considering Cap looked ready to rip his head off when Tony came to, is doing the standard bad guy thing by giving them a history lesson:

“Once, in ze ancient world, the city of Atlantis was thought to be a _myth_ , a lesson on ze dangers of _hubris_ as Plato relates its destruction. For centuries, explorers have searched for ze “Pillars of Hercules” to find sunken treasures— Crete, Cadiz, Cuba. Many lifetimes have been spent in ze hunt for zis _white elephant_.  And yet, no one has questioned _how_ it is zat an earthquake of such immense proportion could drive an entire island into ze sea—what could have caused it? Ze Gods? A natural disaster? No, no, but a _weapon_ , one powerful enough to destroy continents, a weapon zat could end civilization as we know it.”

Tony opens his mouth because, _really_ , someone has to say something here and it sure as _hell_ should be him—but Steve is giving him the patented Captain America ‘shut up, Stark’ look. Well, maybe he missed out on ancient Athenian mythology at some point during Project Rebirth.

But his eyes go to Jim—the Winter Soldier—and clenches his jaw all over again because _dammit_ , their people are _seriously_ late to the party. A good Hulk smashing would be just _fucking stellar_ right about now. (And, no, he isn’t seeing the previous version of the metal hand—left arm v1.0—wrapping around Mom’s throat, firing a final shot into Howard after he was thrown from the car—but the tox reports always…he’d just assumed an enemy of S.H.I.E.L.D finished off what Howard started and Mom caught in the crossfire, but—)

Several agents are guarding the massive opening to the Pyramid ( _stop thinking about it, focus on surviving_ ), guns ready while the Red Skull, who is now being a complete _dick_ and waving one of his arms around, encased in the repulsors Bucky ( _the fucking Winter Soldier_ ) took off of him back in the Ozarks. What better way to rub his nose in some pretty (temporary) crushing defeat than to use his tech against him. Must have taken a few lessons from Ivan Vanko or something.

 _(Just breathe, Tony._ )

“Zis _weapon_ is one to level entire _civilizations_ , you understand. And he who holds ze key will control ze world. We will broadcast our will to every nation on Earth, to _claim_ our superiority! Any who oppose us will _die_ , and finally, Hydra will stand as ze world power.”

Walking side-by-side through the dimly lit pyramid, Tony forces himself to keep calm, to keep _thinking_ , not to let the darkness and close quarters start up a whole different type of _panic_.  He doesn’t realize he’s slowed down until the Winter Soldier’s gloved hand is on the back of his neck, pushing him along to keep the pace with Steve and the crazy Nazi man ahead. He forces himself to breathe through the stale air of the catacombs, even though he’s trying to pick out the ancient writings, to find some kind of indication of a hidden catch or anything _else_ they might be able to use.

But, well, _bad guy_ and from the last ‘let’s kidnap the guy without the suit’ debacle, they probably know better than to let him anywhere near tech even without his hands free.

“You okay?” Cap is looking at him, hands and wrists automatically working at the adamantium bindings.

“Not a fan of closed spaces,” he admits out loud, slightly wheezing, “ones that are somewhat _cave-like_ give me the heebie jeebies.”

“I get that reference, you know,” Steve plays a little, pulling the small lock pick from the inside of his glove, making sure the guards and the Winter Soldier are looking up at them talking rather than down at his hands while they walk.

“Why do you think I used it?” Tony just tries to smirk while the grip on his neck, unyielding, forces him forward.

The trek is long and absolutely full of mad ravings; after a while it becomes like that teacher in the cartoon _Peanuts_ , so much _waah-waah-waah-waah_ rule the world, kill everyone who opposes us, bad guy supreme, on and on.

“Your back?” Cap finally asks, straightening slightly, lifting a shoulder to crack his neck.

“Hurts. You?”

“’Tis only a flesh wound,” Cap give it his all with the accent and everything, throwing a look at the Winter Soldier just behind them.

Not a twitch. Damn. They literally just gave Bucky a lesson on Monty Python last week, and yet there’s no reaction. Steve and Tony exchange a look, but Tony’s head is shoved forward with that unforgiving hand. Cap tries to look like his normal unruffled Star Spangled self, but Tony can see the thoughts flash across his face, the painful _what-ifs_? He knows Steve is already planning to re-capture the Winter Soldier if they live through this fuckery, get him back to the Tower, get their people behind the glitter and flash to do some real deprogramming. _Something_. Well, Tony’s on that plan if things start looking even more grim. Or if his plan, a few steps ahead is a complete failure.

When the creepy, narrow passageway finally opens up to what Tony assumes is the heart of the pyramid. Luckily for him, it eases the pressure in his chest, but unfortunately, it’s the same room where the ancient people probably did their human sacrifices. So only half winning. Bets on who the sacrifices are going to be if that’s in the bad guy plan of the day. Terrible decision really, Tony does _not_ have the legs for sacrificial damsel wear; Steve, well, he could probably pull it off better. Where’s Nat when you need a deadly/sexy combo?

“This…does not look promising,” Cap grunts out when the Winter Soldier pulls them both to stop. They’re facing a slightly raised daises with a mini pyramid rising up behind it, a stone statue perched on top surrounded by agents working to piece the whole of it together. Even in the dim light, it’s obvious parts of the status are missing.  Staring at the big crate sitting casually at the bottom of the smaller daises, Tony has to agree with that assessment. Really, nuclear warheads usually come in smaller packages.

“You never know, it could hold what’s left of his dignity, after the facelift and all,” Tony shrugs back at Cap.

Steve forces himself to be straight-faced, give a serious nod, “might be the rest of this speech in there, Iron Man.”

“You mean there’s _more_? These guys really know how to earn the ‘pointless bullshit monologue’ award, Cap. I’m almost _asleep_ over here.”

They banter lightly as several agents with crowbars open the crate, the Skull pleasantly not hearing (ignoring, how _rude_ , they’re hilarious) them over the noise.

“Party supplies you’re always on about,” Cap goes on, eyes going from Tony to the Winter Soldier. He gives a subtle move of his wrists.

“There’s no _way_ that thing holds enough streamers to cover a pyramid,” he hums a little, eyes moving to the two guards behind him while rocking back on his heels, making all the henchmen watch him move while Steve needs to do his thing.

“I’m just saying, Stark. There could be enough confetti to kill Hulk.”

Subtly, Tony eyes the surrounding goons and the shit they’re carrying; plenty of automatics and vests (head shots) and he catches the glint of the shield that has also been brought along (probably so the Skull can use it for the final blow, being overly _poetic_ ). Well, that’s just a terrible mistake, then again if the Red Skull had taken him up on the PowerPoint, they might have made a smarter call.

“I keep telling you how much Hulk _loves_ a surprise party. He really does have other hobbies than smashing people’s bones into paste.” He eyes the gauntlets, narrowing on the two catches he’d modified with pilfered pieces from the walkies, calculating.

“Who knew he’d have a thing for cat posters?” Cap’s eyes move over the agents over Tony’s shoulder, the strategy forming.

“Um, obviously the genius that put them _up_.”

A huff from behind them, a wordless sighs almost. Well, since they didn’t get a last _meal_ or anything, the henchmen can just deal with their usual back-and-forth.

The wall of the crate facing them comes down with a loud noise, the other sides still being pulled, and what the two Avengers are staring at is a human face carved from stone.

Tony and Steve pointedly blink while agents swarm the artifact. The thing has to weigh a ton and the Skull follows the several agents hefting the thing up the pyramid steps; at least they’re past all the _death and destruction_ talk. Tony and Steve are prodded forward, made to step up on the daisies below. Well, questions answered about the whole _human sacrifice thing_ since the stone is incredibly gross with long worn discolored splotches and an agent hefting an impressive machete, giving it a few practice swings.

Where his hands are clasped together, Cap gives a flash of three fingers, and Tony just leans back with his wrists and hands subtly working against the zip tie (terrible henchmen, did he mention that?). The bite while he moves them is expected, but he’s had worse, so, _so_ much worse.

“So, he’s into human sacrifices along with long walks on the beach and macramé?” Tony’s eyes move to the mechanisms lying in thousands of years’ worth of decay, the stone recently cleaned and ready for a purpose. His fingers start moving on his wrist, tapping a steady motion because of course Cap knows Morse code and really, Tony already knows what’s in the wrapped bundle in the Skull’s hand. Genius, remember?

“I mean,” Tony continue his mouth while moving his finger, “I really would have pegged him for an art enthusiast. You know, _Nazis_ and shit.” He turns to look over his shoulder at Henchmen 1, “right? I mean didn’t they find a Matisse in some apartment somewhere in Germany? Maybe a Chagall, a Picasso or two?”

The Henchmen sneers at him while the others have managed to get the head to the top of the pyramid and are desperately trying to get the head up the statue’s body. The Skull is still wearing the gauntlets. There’s four points of entry, and three possible triggers to some ancient _death_ machine. Two henchmen have explosives. The rest of them are milling around like they’re watching _Jeopardy_.

Cap almost has his cuffs picked, and the zip ties are ready to give.

Immediate henchmen are distracted by the goings on and his ranting, only the Winter Soldier is seriously on their asses. The shield is pretty close, so everything is falling into place.

“You know,” he says casually, giving them a few important moments to hopefully get the Winter Soldier’s attention on something else, “an Avenger’s party would be _fantastic_ right about now. We could so _bond_ over this little trip.”

“Some of us don’t like tequila, Tony.”

“I’m sure we can find some vodka somewhere for our Russian Spider and Blitzkrieg.” He looks pointedly, catching the Soldier’s eye, and grins.

Steve stutters over that, eyes narrowed, but he gets what Tony is trying to do. “Sam likes rum.” Is the best he can come up with since his significant other is currently a clean-slate enemy assassin and such.

Of course, Tony, even with the knowledge he’s recently gotten ( _not an accident_ ) can’t blame Cap for a second. “So? Hawk likes beer, _any_ beer. We’ll make it work.”

“That’s assuming they show up and help us out with this little situation.”

“Well, giant head statue—“ and he gestures wildly, draws the eyes while the minute _click_ goes unheeded, “—which my Jedi Mind Powers of terrible tech is registering,” since he intends to break it and all, “I think might be an indication that we’ve reached _major_ set-back status, Cap.”

Now Steve turns slightly toward him, both noticing the head of the status is finally in place and the Red Skull is unwrapping the bundle he’s carried the entire time. Even in the dim, the huge ruby, slightly larger than an infant, glints with promise, _purpose_.

“We’re surrounded by twenty Hydra agents, you don’t have a suit, I don’t have my shield, the others are who knows where, the Red Skull is alive and probably going to sink half the world into the sea.”

 _Twenty it is then_. _The other half are behind the pyramid_.

“I think that about covers it.” Tony nods while the Winter Soldier and the henchmen are looking fairly perplexed by the exchange.

Cap gives him a patient look, “invading aliens, Tony. _Aliens_ , and that only hit _minor_.”

“Well, we _did_ have a Hulk then didn’t we?”

The chains around his wrists clink sharply, the signal.

“You know what else we had?” Even with the cowl, the arched eyebrow is obvious.

Tony grins a little because the answer is just so obvious, Cap. “Of course, I _know_ , Cap. So hurt you keep forgetting the _genius_ part of ‘billionaire, playboy, philanthropist’.”

“— _and_ engineer,” Cap cuts in smoothly, and Tony only gives him a _look_. “But seriously, Stark, we could use a little of that in this situation. You know.”

And they grin at one another while the agents around them cheer when the Red Skull holds up the massive ruby, the Blood Star, and proclaims the beginning of their “rein of terror” (so tiring, _yawn_ ).

“Oh? You think we need a little bit of _style_ , Steve?”

“Only your brand will do, Tony.”

From behind his belt, right under the loop at his hip, Tony thumbs the small device, smaller than a dime.

“Your wish? Consider it my command.”

The henchmen holding the small crate of _very_ powerful explosives was probably having a good day, considering his organization is about to “take over the world.” Consider his day ruined when the trigger goes off and detonates.

In the immediate aftermath, the two move in tandem, Steve dropping the chains into Tony’s hands when he arched his wrists enough to finally get free of the zip tie while he hits the Winter Soldier low and hard—sending the assassin hurling backwards before the gun goes off. Tony uses the chains as a weapon to hit gawking Henchmen 1, other elbow to take out Henchmen 2 because _oh look, guns_.

“Do not kill zem! They are the _sacrifice_ we need.”

Wound as fuck, however, is apparently still on the table.

Taking that into consideration, as well as being a merchant of _death_ , make it easy for him to take both automatics and open fire immediately since this is going to be one of those fight _for their lives_ scenarios, giving Cap enough cover to take off for the shield, watching the super soldier take out bad guys left and right as he does. Dodging some half-assed bullets, however, he probably could be _better_ , and Tony will very much point that out in the next ( _if there’s a next_ ) training session where Widow is going to glare at them until their balls shrivel up and Sam shake his head but is really trying not to laugh.

The second he has time to take a side shot while, you know, trying _not_ to get himself killed, Tony is picking off the agents on the top of that pyramid and manages to give the Red Skull a few to the knee caps since he _really_ should have thought out the plan better than this.

Unfortunately, the Red Skull places the ruby in the right spot just as Cap picks up the shield and a ton of other agents come from around the pyramid to see what the ruckus is about. Of course, Iron Man sans iron and Captain America are just something they probably didn’t _expect_ at this stage of the evil plot. Oh well. Tony doesn’t bother reloading, just bends to scoop another semi-automatic under any downed agent he possibly can while moving, he and Steve finally circling one another like they usually do in battle, back-to-back to take out the bad guys. Between throws of the shield, kicking, punching, beating, and tossing agents around, Cap has also found a few errant .45s and even though _Hammertech_ , he’s just as good with them as he is old service pistol.  Jim had apparently been a good influence.

Both of them take damage, but by silent agreement, are working their way through the crowd to get closer to the pedestal off to the side where Skull is trying to limp his hurt ass. The controls to the death ray or whatever are probably hidden in some cache by the stone benches. As the pretty ruby on top the scary statue is starting to get very, very _bright_ , the two that have fought together, that _move_ like partners, know a bad sign when they see it.

Trying to avoid getting shot as much as possible, Cap is a _champ_. He throws his shield across Tony as often as possible, deflecting all the shots he can, moving graceful and liquid to take out agents since their _lives_ and who know how many _millions_ are relying on them to stop this. The blood and pain, the grazes and agony, all have to be second place to _stopping this_.

Cap gives him the chance with a crazy spinning move he hasn’t seen yet, taking out a row of agents long enough for Tony to leap over the stone bench, firing with one hand while he takes in the strangely elaborate carving in stone. He switches hands to fire while a finger traces a pattern, lips moving as Steve manages to fire an AR-15 at the same time the Winter Soldier hits him right in the shield, almost taking the two of them to the ground and a splattering of automatic fire sprays into the agents.

With an internal wince, Tony fires pointedly to the joint of the Soldier’s shoulder socket where the arm connects. He feels like an ass for about ten seconds, exploiting a weakness only few have intimate knowledge about, but with Steve’s life and Jim’s winning personality on the line and a _ton_ of bad guys on them, he’s got few options, options that are getting fewer and fewer the more damage they take. Usually when he’s taking on impossible odds, like masses of Doombots, aliens, the assortment of bad guys with _magic_ , etc., etc., he has this _awesome_ metal _suit_ —

And to make things just that much _worse_ , he’s out of time. The hand wrapping around his throat from behind is a good and bad touch in the same instance since his own gauntlets could crush his throat without straining a single servo.

So the contingency in his brain activates immediately, before Skull can even yell a threat to Steve who’s finally got the upper hand on the Winter Soldier with a now slightly less working arm, Tony hits the right side of the gauntlet around his neck. The metal starts closing, crushing the Skull’s forearm since, well, just the gauntlets themselves without the rest of the suit’s operating system don’t have the whole _Tony Stark only_ sticker on them. But, at least it works as calculated, giving Tony freedom to breath since the Red Skull is probably _super pissed_ his plans aren’t going smooth and his hand, forearm, etc. are being crushed as far as the electronics can get tighten.

As effective as it might _not_ be, Tony still grabs Skull to pull in for a knee to the solar plexus, giving it all he’s _got_. As one of the psychologists at S.H.I.E.L.D once told him in a completely bullshit session Nick insisted on: _sometimes, Mr. Stark, you need to work out your aggression rather than succumb to alcohol_.

Check.

Skull doesn’t hit a knee, but it’s a _close_ thing. Just long enough for Tony to hit the second gauntlet, take the already stored disc out of the hidden compartment (since, well, _Doom_ and it’s always good to have one of these for _just incase_ ) and set the charge for another round of _blow shit up immediately_. Two birds, one stone.

He dodges, jumps fast, the next five seconds extremely _crucial_ in getting far away as possible. Unfortunately for the control of the death ray and any regular agents coming to help the Skull, well, not as impressive without the extra explosives, but _boom_.

Steve is using the shield to avoid getting horribly shot when the gauntlet goes off and the nice red ruby stops the scary glowing for a few minutes. Funny enough, a majority of agents are getting _back_ even though there’s only _two_ of them and—

The metal hand gripping his bicep is probably the reason _why_.

Shit.

Tony tightens his grip on the disc as he’s picked up and _thrown_ —biting down on a cry when his back slams into the stone platforms and pain radiates all over, making him lose precious air.

He manages to get an arm up right before the knife comes perilously close to his sternum. Of course, his strength is nothing compared to the Winter Soldier, and all he can do is dodge as far as he can to the side as the knife clattering against the stone, try to get the disc—

Steve yells from across the room, “ _Mon Lupe!_ _Arrêter!”_

Tony has a moment of _what_ when the Winter Soldier above him freezes. Completely. Those grey eyes are wide, and the metal hand opens with a jerk of the plating, dropping the knife. It looks like he’s been struck.

“Jim,” Tony rasps out desperately. “James Barnes!”

Nothing, nothing but a twitch of his eyebrow, his throat working to swallow, and Tony has to _try_ —he lunges up, shoves their mouths together, shoves his tongue in, to distract long enough to place the disc at the back of his neck and tap it to activate.

It’s a long shot, a mini EMP device meant for consoles and dictator-approved androids, not human beings. But, if he’s right and the nanites in Jim’s system somehow activated, if that’s _why_ his memories wouldn’t regenerate, why he lost himself but remembered _old_ missions and became—

_Please, **please** , whatever power in the universe is out there, let this fucking **work.**_

Whatever powers that be might have been listening to _something_ because the outstanding sound coming from close by is enough to make Tony pull away from the Soldier’s mouth, moving just as the bulkier man collapses on his side. All he can think of is how much trouble Pep is going to have to go through when officials call about the permanent damage done to a historical site when and _holy fuck_ what if he just caused Jim to have an aneurism of something—

The Hulk doesn’t bother knocking, though he rarely does, unless it’s knocking out an important pyramid wall with a whole lot of _smash_.

He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his whole _life_.

“Hulk!” He automatically reaches for the dropped gun from the Winter Soldier’s uniform, a _StarkTech_ fuck you very much, “help Cap!” He throws a hand up to the possibly still terrifying statue that might have some _auto-on_ feature, “and _smash that thing!_ ”

The grin is just so much better when he’s saving their asses. Really, just inspiring Big Guy. More cat posters on the way.

Tony diverts his attention to the Winter Soldier lying beside him, seemingly in shock, eyes still wide and unblinking; another stab of fear hits because he could have done some irreparable damage, he could have pretty much _killed_ one of the men he’s in love with, he may have miscalculated the EMP jolt or how many nanites in Jim’s system are active, or—

“Please wake up,” he palms the side of Jim’s face, bloody thumb running over the cheekbone while his chest gets _tighter_ , “please wake up and be my Jim, you charming, charismatic, _bastard_. Please, _God_ , _please_ be **you**.”

Speaking of which, thunder booms overhead, the signal of a certain God that’s just come to hang out. Steve is limping, letting Hulk do the majority of messy fighting now, but throws the shield like he _missed_ it while the baddies had it, and Tony keeps himself right here where he’s needed the most. Which, turns out to be an error in judgement.

He turns just in time to see the agent standing a few feet from them open fire, flinching because _this is it_. No cover, no way to divert a dead on shot. He breathes deeply, focus narrowing down—

The metal arm suddenly in front of his face blocks his view of the gun barrel. The human hand moves with _insane_ speed to send a throwing knife (of his design) right between the agent’s eyes, felling him without seeming to do so. Just another scary thing _a la_ Winter Soldier.

Tony already knows Thor is in the mix, smacking agents around willy nilly with the Mjölnir while the metal arm comes down after protecting him from _eminent death_ , and Tony turns enough to look up at the grey eyes that he can’t interpret right now, but are _intense_ , staring down at him.

 _He’s alive_.

And Tony can’t be sure if he’s going to be almost strangled in the next ten seconds or not, but he’s already starting to babble a little about, “Steve needs you, the Handler is in trouble, please, _please_ be our Asset or Jim or _Bucky_ , fuck, be a goddamned _Dodgers fan_ right now, anything but that other guy, _anything but_ —“

( _The man that killed my parents in cold blood_ )

The hand wrapping in his hair makes him choke on a breath, an _oh no_ because he didn’t want to go out with a broken neck, _really_. Rather be shot, thanks.

But Jim’s mouth is on his, pressing, opening his lips with a tongue, and moving his head for a better angle. And, oh that’s better, _much_ better than the other handful of terrible possibilities—his brain doesn’t list them while he gets blood everywhere and probably in Jim’s hair where he’s holding on so _tight_.

It’s James “Bucky” Barnes that pulls back, staring down at him with grey eyes, glancing up to take in the carnage around them, seeking out Steve, Hulk, Thor, and Witch who have joined the party—and apparently forgotten their hats. Dammit, his message said not to forget—

His rambling thought totally forestall the thought process on the fact his eyes and cheeks are hot, wet, that he’s trying to get a full _breath_ because _fuck_ , _Jim…_

Hulk leaping around them to smash the _shit_ out of more henchmen with guns jars him out of _thank God, thank **God**_ time to remember they’re still fighting for their lives here. Just, really Stark, you need to be the selfish asshole and worry about your continued survival.

“Get to Cap,” he says again, more firm than the prior rambling, already pulling himself away, looking for the automatic that flew out of his hand when he got a little Winter Soldier heave- _ho_.

The hand around his wrist stops him fast, Jim’s eyes wide and possibly shocky. “Tony, I…”

Breathing deep ( _not an accident_ ), Tony turns his hand in Jim’s grasp, “it’s okay. We’ll handle the fallout later. Right now you need to get to Steve, okay? Can you fight?”

“Can always fight, doll face,” is a hoarse declaration and some of his anxiety eases. “…Tony…”

“Later,” he blinks, pulling himself away from Jim’s eyes and _just_ —“I need to make sure millions of people aren’t going to sink into the sea.”

And _dammit_ , Tony moves to stand first but Jim is up, already pulling him by an arm to sway dangerously before he finds his balance. The two look over, catch Cap’s eye so the _all good_ sign is right there. Jim has two knives in hand before Tony has another _breath_ and gives him one last side-eye before jumping into the fray. It leaves Tony enough time to pick up yet another terrible automatic and start to make his way to what is probably a secondary station for this magic weapon—one that has a few agents also interested since they’re just _touching_ stuff.

Hulk hasn’t make it to the top of the pyramid, Witch is making people lay down their damn arms with one hand while the other smacks the shit out those that _don’t_ , Thor is just walking through the remaining people with vicious punches and kicks—Tony is still looking for the missing Widow, Hawkeye, and Falcon but nothing so far.

While Tony fires, one of the agents at the stone panel leans over and the two behind him grab his arms while the third easily slits his throat right over the panel, holding his head up by the hair to make sure he gushes blood all over it.

Oh.

_Shit._

The Blood Star puts on a serious _show_ this time—lighting up like Time’s Square on New Year’s Rocking Eve (except, you know, in a confined _space_ ), almost blinding everyone in the room. The glare is too bright for the Hulk or Thor to get to the statue; destroying the panels may be the only way they’re going to stop this thing, and he’s already taken care of one out of three.

Well, there are plenty of agents shielding their eyes and trying to get to the third one around the side of the pyramid.

“Hulk!” Tony yells without looking away from the third panel, shielding his eyes and firing at the same time, “SMASH!” Steve will probably get it if the Big Guy doesn’t and send Hulk in that direction while Tony is picking off anyone going for the final stone panel, ducking and dodging bad guys as well as his teammates who are just _so fucking awesome_ to show up.

He literally throws himself over the panel and actually gets a minute to look over the carvings—which, now that he _looks_ is probably more likely a channel for blood to run through and active some _crazy_ ancient tech to keep the machine up there running; you know, human sacrifices and all.

“Friend Stark!” Thor yells as he slams a very, _very_ effective fist into a mortal’s face. It’s just awe-inspiring, Point Break. Completely.  With a heft of his weapon, the God is moving to him, carnage in his wake.

“I’m very disappointed there’s no party hats,” Tony interjects while looking over the Mesoamerican hieroglyphs, trying to decipher the meanings, mind hitching into overdrive since, well, _he’s_ not that kind of Doctor. Having Bruce here would be _super_ helpful.

“I shall endeavor to remember for next time,” Thor placates absently over Tony’s shoulder, looking down at the cryptic stone panel with furrowed brows.

“If I can figure out what this is saying to stop the ancient death machine, then we might have a next time,” Tony replies, fingers lightly tracing the deep grooves of the pictograms.

Thor’s hand comes under his, the God leaning right against his back, craning over his shoulder, a broader finger than Tony’s tracing the language along with his own.

“ ‘It is the will of the Gods, lives given for power gained,’ ” Thor begins, and Tony immediately perks, looking at the intense expression sitting right on his shoulder.

“You mean you can _read this_?”

Thor pauses and spares him a patient look.

Hm, well, of course he probably could. “Right. Thousands of years old. Sorry, okay, okay, what else? How do we _stop_ it?”

Thor leans closer, thus leaning Tony closer, finger following the next line of pictograms, both of them staring while carnage and fighting goes on.  Thor, without looking up, yanks his free hand up and back, throwing Mjölnir to the two agents that have set up to try taking them down, and the glowy show isn’t getting any less _bright_.

“ ‘For man will be the Gods’ might, and the—‘ “ he seems to stutter a bit, “I am not certain, ‘disbelievers’ perhaps? Ah,” the broad finger moves, “—the disbelievers shall fall. Only the true-hearted shall bathe in the light of the Blood Star without, umm ‘death,’ or a similar sentiment, Tony.”

Well, _cryptic much?_

“Well _shit_. It would be _nice_ if the evil Nazi men would have chosen a more well-known ancient people to use for their terrible schemes!” Tony squints up as the ruby’s light sharpens and he sucks in a breath, wishing he had his repulsors right about now, blowing the ruby _might_ —

The increasing light and subtle vibrating floor force Falcon to the ground, the wings retract as he paces back to them, guns out, and ready for more ass kicking, “please tell me all that sparkle means we’re winning?”

“You’re half right maybe?” Tony tries while Thor presses on a sunken square, other arm around Tony’s waist, ready to move them both away should the trigger prove fatal (all of them are pathetically _aware_ of what he’s doing when he’s not in the suit, just c’mon, all of you, big boy Iron Man here).

“Cap wants to know if we need to get marshmallows.”

“Cute. Status on Red Skull and the Winter Soldier?” Because _multi-tasking_ is seriously a skill.

“Skull looks like ass since you blew him up and he took Iron Man shrapnel to the non-existent face. The Winter Soldier is pretty much killing everything _not_ us. Good, right?”

Signs point to _yes_ , good times, well, except when whatever Thor triggered apparently started things _moving_. The rumbling under their feet increases and the panel in front of them gives an abrupt jerk, the whole mechanism slowly starting to rise, a pillar of stone with two wide-eyed Avengers with a whole lot of _what’s happening_ on their faces. Tony grabs on to keep to his feet while Thor shuffles closer to brace them both; around the points of the pyramid, the other three panels also start rising closer to the top—closer to the murderous Blood Star.

“That was a bad idea. Touching things is usually _a bad idea_ , big guy!” But Thor is intent on re-reading the passage again.

“Stark!” Falcon yells from the ground as they start rising, wings pop out like he’s ready to fly.

“Stay there!” Tony yells because who knows what’s going to be the end result of this test. The God behind him is still intent on the panel in front of them.

“True believer. _True believer_.” Thor mutters to himself and squints, trying to look at the ruby again as they get closer.

“I haven’t been to church since I was seven,” Tony admits, feeling around the edges for another mechanism while spotting the Red Skull going toe-to-toe with Captain America and what seems to be a _pissed off_ Winter Soldier, who is giving no mercy. Tony gets an eyeful as Jim drops to a knee and delivers a _stunning_ uppercut right to the Skull’s balls with the metal hand—Steve already had a whole lot of shield backhand on the way, so the simultaneous blows take the other super soldier down to the ground. From where Tony can see, the Nazi is valiantly trying not to throw-up.

“Ah! Tony!” Thor bellow right in his damn ear, “the _true believer!_ One who would give his life for the cause! Get **down!** ”

Luckily, Thor apparently _should be_ that kind of doctor when he shoves them both down as the Blood Star’s light becomes a singular, condensed point—

The stone behind them is cut like paper along with the stone behind the other two panels where _people_ should have been, waiting to be a damn _sacrifice_. Thor is generally being a good bro by covering his head, keeping him down when he _really_ wants to see _how_ the ancients were able to create such a weapon of mass destruction and maybe figure out how it could do things like, you know, _sinking_ a massive land mass. Whatever is in that reconstructed statue is going to be _epic_.

Once the light cuts off without killing either of them, Thor peers over the panel and Tony leans up to peer beside him.  Since a whole lot of _possibly bad_ might be happening, they should be observing as the statue literally _moves_ , the stone body turning itself, moving when the mechanism, the supposed _sacrifice_ was made.

“Shit! Okay, Mjölnir is made of _god metal_ , so it should be able to crack that stone, right? Maybe?” And who knew he’d actually want a nuclear war head instead of this? Really, priorities.

Whatever Thor might have said is lost as the resounding _clang_ of the shield sailing through the air slams into the stone head and rebounds off the gem, causing the thing to wobble dangerously before righting itself and Tony catches—

He pauses, Thor’s hand by his side tracing over the other markings going down the stone.

“I’ve got to get over there.”  “I believe I have found the catch in the mechanism.”  At the same time.

From the ground, the Scarlet Witch has joined Falcon right below them while the Quinjet is on it’s way with the others and the Avengers present are rounding up bad guys. “Are you two all right?”

“Peachy! Trying to figure out death ray picture schematics,” Tony calls down and grips Thor’s arm, “okay, Point Break, can you get me over there?”

Another groan and the shifting in the stone starts to move under the status, the pyramid itself moving, the top row literally _rising_. Tony looks up, trying to see if there is some point where the larger pyramid opens to let the device out for a long range attack.

“Tony—!” Cap and the Winter Soldier trade out with Falcon to watch the bad guys. Steve is almost bent in half, only Jim keeping him on his feet and—

 _(Her throat was crushed_ )

Blinking away _something,_ he catches:

“—Sitrep! Thor, get down here to we can plan it out!” The pyramid is getting taller, the stone shifting without seeming to move, just to _grow_. And the engineer picks out the places where the movement happens, trying to puzzle it out. Just like his suits, just like his tech in general, he looks for the hinges and levers, prawls or some kind of damn _rachets_. Something to give him an idea how the thing is _moving_.

And _ah… **there** are—oh how clever._

The God pulls himself away from trying to decipher more of the code, gripping Tony’s bicep to get them off this crazy ride when Tony just laughs out loud, maybe a little off _balance_ , but really, it’s not been a good day.

“Sorry Cap,” his eyes intent for the moving stone, tracing the movement to what could be the product of an impressive pivot arm and rachet combo—well, and _magic_ (not like he’s going to admit it)—but things people with superpowers can realistically _break_. “We might have found the instructions to the bouncie castle!”

“Stark, you heard Red Skull. It’s going to take a human sacrifice to turn the damn thing _off_.”

“There’s a mechanics to it,” he yells back, “I need everyone with more-superior-than-human strength at four spots while I take the top. Maybe if we take out the mechanism, we can stop it. Ten minutes, tops.” He ignores the inevitable _what if we don’t have ten minutes?_

Thor is glaring at him, it’s the _look_ from after the Battle of New York when he flew the bomb into a space hole (nope, never letting Steve live that down). “Tony—“

“Sooner is better. You can tell me about ancient tribal secret while I try to find out how to stop it. Hopefully it doesn’t call for a hex key since I’m fresh out. And, since I do _not_ want to get my ass fried, I’ll keep a look out, but if what the Red Skull said about this thing is _right_ , then it could kill millions, big guy, _millions_.”

Litany of cursing in Asgardian, which means Tony wins, and Thor give Mjolnir a good twirl before grabbing him around the back and lifting off the platform, into the deadly red sparkle. With the pyramid shifting to get it closer to whatever focal point it would need, Tony has to move when Thor drops him down; luckily, he already has the weak spots fixed, ones where the moving parts would be vulnerable to things like _smash_.

“All right, I’m telling you where, but wait for the signal. We need to take it out at one time,” maybe, well, probably. Tony leaps up the second-to-last row, getting closer to the glow, shielding his eyes with a hand.  “Hulk, right there,” his finger points to the right spot, moving along with it so Big Green can see the niche in the stone.

“Thor, next,” the God’s eyes narrow at the spot of stone that would normally be a challenge to find.

“Cap and shield,” Tony hops up to the next step, gritting his teeth at the wash of red while the Winter Soldier joins Captain America at the third focal point.

“Soldier!” Jim’s eyes snap up to watch Tony’s progress, coming close to the still moving, turning statue; he gets where Stark is pointing, glancing at the winded, slightly chewed up Steve before going. He stops the impulse to lean in because—the _Soldier_ and what he was _like_.

“Hey,” Steve reaches out first, the leather gloves hot and slick on the back of his neck, grounding him in that imperative moment. “It’s all right, Buck. We’re okay.”

But Jim Barnes knows better, his gaze going up to Tony’s back again. _The Asset was going to kill Tony to keep Hydra from being exposed, endangered…_

“If we survive,” he starts hoarsely, “he ain’t gonna forgive me, Stevie. Not for as long as he lives.”

Steve blinks at the tone of voice, the _anguish_ , “What happened?”

Jim Barnes, _Bucky_ , shakes his head and turns, darting off to get to the spot when Tony yells a “let’s get a _move on_ , Red October! Death machine, remember?!”

Tony, however, is balls deep in moving stone and pretty red light, eyes catching the seams where the agents put the thing together, glad Falcon and the Scarlet Witch are on ‘guard bad guy asshat duty’ while the rest of them are possibly within the realm of eminent demise messing with this huge machine.

Now that he’s close enough to see the head and where the jewel fits, he can understand how the magnification works, combined with whatever magical powers of the ruby are going to be an unstoppable force.

“Everyone ready?!” He yells at the top of his lungs, hands hovering over the neck and shoulder joint, every muscle tense. _Don’t fuck this up, snatch it at just the right second_. Aaaannnnndddd—

“NOW!”

The reverberation of four splitting blows, a monstrous fist, a Godly Hammer, an unbreakable shield, and an unforgiving fist cause the pyramid’s ascent to the sky an abrupt and disastrous stop, throwing the status off its’ axis enough that mere mortal Tony Stark can get his hands into the vulnerable joints to unlock the stone and wrench it apart without superhuman or robotically enhanced strength. The pyramid’s jolt and halting motions helped out with Tony’s arms and hands _straining_ and the damn thing _finally_ comes apart enough that the head goes _flying_ off to fuck all where.

Once the jewel and the head tumble the loooong way down and the light is merely a soft glow, the rest of the thing just comes apart, the stone torso, arms, legs, all crumble apart, which of course means—

“Oh dammit, **_run!_** ”

Tony has a moment to look horrified as the stone under him is abruptly jolting _once_ before the base seems to give out and the whole _fucking thing_ bottoms out and he has a crazy sense of weightlessness, like when he’s thousands of feet in the air and shuts off the rocket boosters to just hang in the atmosphere. Only this time, he’s going to land on a whole lot of stone and pain and—

Thor has a hold of him as the Winter Soldier is already jumping with Captain America’s arm over his shoulder, grabbing on to Falcon’s outstretched hand, all of them absurdly luck the wing pack will hold their combined weight just enough to get them the hell _out_ by taking a sharp rise _up_ (later, he’s going to gloat about upgrades and how _necessary_ those are Sam). Hulk, however, looks absolutely unimpressed, just huffing with the hordes of ancient dust and dirt the collapsing structure is kicking up before he bunches his knees to leap off the collapsing stone.

Scarlet Witch, in her incredible brilliance, well, _and_ with the help of the remaining Avengers and SSARAS that have made it to the scene, has already herded the surviving bad guys back against the walls, gleefully zapping anyone that attempted to get out of line. She’s waiting with the Black Widow, Hawkeye, the Director, and a whole lot of good-guy agents that are guarding, processing, or moving members of Hydra’s goon squad out through the catacombs. And, yeah, he’s not looking forward to _that_ little trip back through the dark, but with Jim standing right at Steve’s side helping to hold him up while looking over at Tony—grey eyes light and full and just _not_ that other creepy fucker but the creepy fucker he’s become _accustomed_ to— he figures he might have his chi aligned to do it anyway.

Widow and Hawk are finally here, looking him and Steve over as they move like the scary people they are—V lands right by Witch and _oh look, team’s back together_. And yet, no one remembered the hats or streamers. So, so disappointed in you, Director Agent. So very disappointed—

The loud sound in the midst of the noise is just so _sudden_ and the pain hits as if the stone _had_ crumbled down on him; the impact staggers him right off his feet and against Thor’s armor. Six or seven agents on their side are wrestling with the Red Skull, trying to get the side arm he’d pilfered out of his bound hands and maybe he should show the baby agents the PowerPoint too just so, you know, they don’t tie bad guy’s hands in front of them. Rookie mistake, Tony thinks inanely, watching as Hulk take the initiative wrap a huge hand around Skull, dislodging the agents enough to slam the Nazi into the stone wall a few times for good measure.

He knows Thor must be holding him up because his legs aren’t and the blood stain is spreading over his chest while there’s yelling. So much _yelling_. He wanted noise makers, not yelling. Why couldn’t they all just calm down—

Yes, Tony is his name. He _knows_ , don’t have to yell it Cap.

“Stay with me,” Jim is looking down at him, and he must be laying on Jim’s knees while Steve’s got a hold of one hand. He can _see_ it even if he can’t _feel_ it, and someone can’t breath because he _can_ hear the panting, straining breath—

It’s him. He’s coughing up blood, that’s why he’s panting. Can’t get enough oxygen. Shot might have taken out the arc reactor or hit a lung or—

“Tony, _Tony_ , look at me, _look at me_ ,” Steve and Jim look wide-eyed, afraid, and he has enough in him to regret how it all went down, but only for himself, only because he’s a _selfish_ bastard. It’s better for them that he’s not with them all the way. It’s _better_ because it won’t hurt as much when the inevitable strikes—like _now_ —and he just wanted to _protect them_ , he just wanted—

“I’m sorry, Tony. I’m so sorry.” Please don’t, _don’t_ James—

“Stay awake, Stark.” He’s going to make Clint a lavender bow next time, he’s…he’s—

“Hulk, we _need_ Bruce, now!” Big Green, owe you cat pictures so Nat can like them without anyone knowing.

“You cannot. You _shall_ not.” And well, he might have to piss off a God, but not really unheard of from him is it?

“Please, Tony, focus.” Wanda…wanted to give her more flower. All the flowers…

Tony forces himself to squeeze Steve’s hand while looking up at Jim’s devastated face, coming in and out of the talk spewing from the Solider while Director Agent is yelling into him comm and people are _running around_ and Thor has a hand over the hole in him, causing more pain while Widow and Hawk and—

But he can’t look away from Steve and Jim, and he’s selfish—did he mention that?— and it’s a stupid thing that he can’t possibly leave without them knowing the truth.

“I love you,” is what he manages before his vision goes dark and he hears them calling out to him again. Really…really…they should rest too…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this seemed to go really fast, sorry about that. I spent last month moving and the muse for this smacked me int he face, but ah, my best friend threw out the Olmec thing and I seriously ran with it. I’m sorry that I cannot apparently German OR Engineer ancient artifacts the death machines, but I hope it was still kind of entertaining. This was a really long chapter for this story, so I hope it kept you riveted ;)  
> As always, thanks for reading. Feel free to leave me a review.


	43. Static

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ancient… death machine,” and his lips are numb, fingertips right there too, “did you…did you know that? Death. Machine.”
> 
> The flesh hand moves, pauses indecisively, and then fingers are threading into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Yeah, yeah. You and you’re excuses. Death machine, ppft.” But Jim’s tone is still strained, half-hoarse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, it’s been…a while O_O So sorry folks. Other writing and just. I’ve started at the same two pages for months. Then stared at five pages for another few months. Then, well, you get the idea, but I still think we’re good here with it. It might not be the thing I wanted, but it’s the thing that came from the brain pan. I think the hardest thing is that I lost the flow, the omniscient narration style because my own has kind of shifted in the last few months, so you’ll probably notice the style is somewhat…different. I dunno, maybe evolved, so there’s that. I hope it doesn’t break anything for you.

The Quinjet is really a genius design; an air shuttle capable of hitting Mach 2 in less than _how fast are they going?_ Hawk is pushing every last ounce of power, his jaw clenched, eyes going to the sky around them, making sure they’ve got a straight shot. Riding right beside the jet in the pocket of dead space created under the wing, Thor is looking grim while he helps make sure neither God nor Demon shall stand in their way—naught will stand against him in this. Should any try, he will rend them asunder and cast their corpses from the _sky_ ( _and the blood on his armor is reminiscent of Balder’s final moments, but this is Tony’s blood, another comrade, another **brother** , dying in his arms…_). His jaw clenching against the thought, Thor scans the open air above and below them, half his attention on the comm in his ear. The healers are awaiting them, and Iron Man _will hold_ until the Avengers get there. He _shall_. It is the word of Thor and so it must _be_.

Beside Clint in the cockpit, Steve Rogers is keeping himself busy ( _not panicking_ ) by multitasking as the leader of the team. He’s already verified everyone’s status: Bruce is dead on his feet but they’re out of options—he’s the only other scientist even close to being able to fix the reactor if the shot damaged the thing keeping Tony _alive_ ; Vision is trying to stay away from the working group huddled at the backside of the Quinjet because regardless what he and Tony might _say_ , the lifeform has emotions and feels himself too _compromised_ to be of much use; Widow’s right bite is trashed and her suit ripped at the back of her thigh but she’s not moving from Bruce’s side; Wanda looks shaky but is standing firm; Clint’s jaw is clenched tight but he actually seems to have gotten out of this one unscathed. Sam…is being Sam, only a superficial graze already clotting. And Bucky…

Bucky is staying with Tony (because if one of them is there, if one of them is _with him_ , to _remind him_ how much he’s _needed_ then he can’t—).

Steve shakes himself, moves slightly to monitor the radars and displays constantly streaming any updates from the SSARAS ships on the state of the _severely_ beaten Red Skull and his minions. SSARAS agents are working with the local government in dismantling the device in that pyramid; Skull might have a ruptured testicle (well, Buck has one helluva right hook, nice to know some things that wacked-out serum might take some time to _fix_ , that sonofabit—), and his people are singing like stoolies about all the plans and hideouts, giving Maria’s people the details on those magical artifacts. Hydra was going to have some major _set-backs_ after it’s all said and done. So, good on that front.

But, his eyes keep moving over his shoulder to the gathering around the fold-out gurney. His sensitive hearing can pick up Bruce and the field medic talking back and forth while he’s busy making sure they aren’t going to fly into any unfriendlies on the way to get Tony to the anxiously awaiting medical team just over the border at the SI Texas Division.

At the end of the day, none of it will mean _jack_ if the Arc Reactor is more severely damaged than Bruce can repair with the materials they have to work with in the jet. (The point-blank shot to the chest might have done the device in, and he _can’t_ , he just _can’t_ because it’s _Tony,_ Tony that writhed under them in the sheets, that touched and tasted, that held on when the nightmares of cold water and going down over the endless spans of snow, that smiled when he had new tech to bring to the table, that fed them all and…and _Tony_ ).

While Buck had been carrying ( _running_ ) Tony the hell out of the damned place, Steve hadn’t been able to tell where all the blood was coming from, too busy trying to staunch the flow and help balance Tony in Bucky’s hold as much as he could (fear and _guilt_ because…well, he’d _known_ , back when S.H.I.E.L.D. was still up, before the Helicarrier went down over D.C. _and he had to tell Tony the truth, didn’t he? It could kill whatever this was before it could really **be**_ but Tony had to _know_ ), while the whole team flat-out running or flying to keep up with them on the way to the waiting Quinjet.

He should be accustomed to the fella getting knocked around some. Heck, they’d been on a team together since Steve had come out of the ice. This revelation (and Buck’s eyes wild and glazed, blood on his flesh hand while they both held onto Tony in that pyramid, “he _knows,_ Stevie. The Soldier, the empty one, _told_ ‘im. Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”), the hard reality he should have told his other best friend _ages ago_ , is going to change everything. When Tony had let them skim the surface of what _could be_ , Steve was _that much more_ determined to break this “I’m going to do the right thing by you two” mentality. He and Buck had a _plan_.

(“I love you.” Even with his enhanced hearing, he’d barely heard it. “I love you.” And he’d been looking at them both, back and forth, the _words mean for them both. God Tony, why **now**? _ Obviously, because he didn’t think he was making it out and that’s just _so absolutely Tony_ , to give into his real feelings when he was backed up against a wall with no way out—)

Tony hadn’t been with them since they got back from Scotland, had started distancing himself again, being the best friend they needed, blowing Bucky’s plan all to hell. They hadn’t been able to sway him to come back to their bed, to come back to _them_ , or have even had the _time_ needed to work him over enough so he could _see_ how much they _wanted_ , _needed_.  Well, Steve and Buck had agreed before the reconnaissance mission, no more waiting for him to come to that _realization_ ; the two of them agreed whole-heartedly that Tony was just going to have to trust them, to trust _himself_ with them, and somehow, they had to figure just the right way to explain it so the resident genius wouldn’t have an argument left to deny them all what they needed. They just hadn’t found the right time to let Tony in on it; well, Steve was supposed to snag Tony right after the mission and haul him kicking and screaming back to their floor for the _big talk_.

Now, they might never get that chance.

Even if Tony survives the shot to his chest.

Because now, _now_ that the hard truth had come out, he has no idea what might happen, how their mechanic (their _third_ ) might take the shock. And he’d seen it, the fear of it in Bucky’s eyes, in the shake of his hands—one holding Tony, one gripping Steve’s forearm, the slightly lost, crumpled expression, the obvious _‘what do we do? What do we **do**?_ ’ that neither Captain America or Steve Rogers has a plan for. Not for when Tony would eventually learn _who_ was the weapon that took his parent from him—all of it would depend solely on Tony.

Provided Tony _lives_ through this.

( _He has to live, he’s Tony damn Stark_ )

A sharp pain makes him focus again, but Steve can catch the smattering of talk between the medic and Bruce, of the injuries taking precedent. He hears Bruce call out Tony’s coughing up blood in the oxygen mask strapped over his face, and the knee-jerk reaction is to get to his feet, to _move_ , but Sam just looks up from winding the bandage around the gauze on his half-healed knee ( _not enough calories for the serum to fix it completely_ ) and shoves against the healing injury to keep him on his ass. The bit of pain is enough to get the Captain’s attention while the former soldier is muttering to himself about _big guys_ that act like _assholes_ and get themselves hurt because of _blatant stupidity, Rogers_ and there’s probably a _you know I’m talking about you_ in there somewhere. Vision, however, just lays a restraining hand on his shoulder in that _I’m not trying to hold you back but think before you move_ kind of way.  

Once they’d hit the Quinjet and laid Tony out, Sam had pretty much herded ( _forced_ ) him away from the gurney to make room for a wobbly Bruce and the field medic from SSARAS, pointing a forefinger at Jim to _stay put_ and tugged Steve to sit down long enough to be assessed. The protests of _this ain’t nothing_ unheeded (or more appropriate, Sam just usually doesn’t give a damn about his excuses anyway). V had taken up on one side with Sam on the other, disinfecting the injuries they could find and making sure that _yes, they are healing well enough Captain. However, please do not do more damage or the Black Widow may give you wounds with which to **concern**_ _yourself_. Nat’s evil eye was enough to sit him down in the first damn place, even if it _burned him_ _right up_ because he should be seeing to the other right now, not to himself—

But the last bits are treated before gauze pads taped on and bandages to cover them. V had cheerfully claimed the First Aid YouTube videos (even though they sadly put Wanda to sleep) were most helpful. The lifeform had remained calm and collected, looked over at the group huddling by Tony’s inert form.

“My creator,” Vision starts slowly, “is a foolish man at times, Captain. Surely you are already aware of this?”

Steve grins up a little, but the mirth doesn’t reach his eyes (and the lifeform _knows_ there is something _more_ , something potentially _damaging_ there) “water is wet, too. Right, V?”

Vision laughs, and it’s a good thing Steve thinks even if he’s already _weighed down_. For a while, the lifeform seemed completely _lost_ as to how to live in the world without some catastrophe, without being _needed_ to do something (and Tony claimed it was a J.A.R.V.I.S hold-over, that V would need to figure out how to be really _alive_ ).  Sadly, Steve knew _exactly_ that feeling, like when he’d first come out of the ice and had to begin living in a world so vastly different, so _daunting_ —it had just seemed right to take Vision along with him, to try getting the fella into _something_.

Slowly, as he began taking up hobbies, being _curious_ about things, the better he seemed to be. He was doing more than _learning_. He was beginning to _live_.

And Steve grunts, breath wheezing out at the surprise ache in his middle. He starts with, “it wasn’t _my fault_ this time, you know that, right?”

“ ‘Not your fault’? Oh _really_ now?” Sam returns with an arched brow, making sure to pull the bandage nice and _tight_ enough that Cap gives a wince. “Not your fault you tried to take down a camp of Hydra soldier while the both of you are only _slightly_ injured from an exploding helicopter crash? That’s how you’re going to tell me it’s _not your fault,_ Cap?”

There’s not room for him to wiggle out of this one, but darn it if Steve doesn’t try (and _yes_ , he’s aware Sam is just trying to be a best friend and keep his attention off the emergency behind them since Sam already _knows_ all about this thing with them and the engineer. At this point, they probably all do, and he honestly needs the Avengers to stop _gossiping_ about it. Yes, they’re trying. _No,_ they don’t need anyone _else_ to talk to Tony about it, and for the love of _God_ , Clint, stop trying to set them all up in the same room with candles and that raunchy music).

“Did anyone mention they had plans for a _death laser_ , Sam? Kind of an ancient one, almost took half the eastern seaboard?”

“You mean the one the team made it to _in the nick of time_ without your help? I mean, you were just _chilling_ with Hydra while we were _trying_ to find you.” Sam stands, gets himself in the by the control panel out of Clint’s way while keeping Steve in his line of sight.

“And just how would SSARAS have known if we hadn’t crash landed and drew everyone to the Ozarks in the first place?”

(“Chest tube, Dr. Banner!”

“Get on with it, his lung is collapsing.”

“Bruce, he ain’t… _Bruce!_ ”

“I know, Jim, we’re working on it. Keep talking to him even if he isn’t responsive. Tony? _Tony_ , I know it hurts, but you need to open your eyes. _Try_ , Tony. Do it for the Other Guy.”)

Steve’s eyes go to the back again, taking in Bruce’s shaky form held up by Nat on one side and Wanda on the other; Dr. Light is right across from him, brows furrow in concentration, blood on her gloved hands. Tools move in and out of his line of sight, and it’s the chest tube they were talking about. Bucky at the head of the gurney, out of the way, holds IV lines up and over when needed, his metal hand gripping the gurney right beside the tuft of curly, dark hair. (But he’s can’t see Tony’s face or chest, he can’t _see_ —)

As if feeling his gaze, Jim’s head turns, looking at Steve over his shoulder. His grey eyes are dark, haunted, and he just gives a minute shake of his head.

_Still unconscious_

(“ _I love you._ ”)

“I need—“ Bruce starts, halting, harsh with exhaustion, and Jim moves his metal hand, the arm shifting to smooth, uninterrupted plating; the hand plants firmly by Tony’s side, giving Bruce a firm place to rest his shaky arm.

The doctor nods without looking away but lays his forearm against Jim’s to brace himself and go back to carefully picking out the bullet fragments still lodged under Tony’s rib cage. He has the Other Guy’s comm still in his ear, speaking haltingly at intervals so Thor, who is watching the skies around them, and Coulson, in the following Helicarrier, can get Tony’s status as fast as he can report. Dr. Light, after making sure Mr. Stark’s lung doesn’t collapse, is across from Bruce monitoring the pieces of shrapnel close to the erratically pumping heart and other vitals without pausing a beat at the damaged, flickering arc reactor; her expression is intense while she keeps him updated. She’d been the one to do the chest tube, since Bruce was shaky enough as it is, but true to form, he had expressed how _important_ it was for her to do her _upmost best_ for Tony Stark since the Other Guy is restless as hell with their favorite mechanic out cold and struggling to _live_ (and because Tony had enemies _everywhere_ , it's nice to make sure people _knew_ he also had friends—friends that liked to _smash_ ). She hadn’t even batted an eye at the mention of the Hulk, and well, wasn’t that nice? Only very, _very_ scary people didn’t flinch at talk of the Other Guy.

(Like Nat)

“Two more fragments and then we’re going to start stitching,” Bruce’s eyes narrow while Wanda tightens her grip around his waist to keep him from listing, and Widow gingerly releases his other arm to get the tray with medical grade thread and supplies ready for him.

Bruce breathes out, losing support on that side, forcing his knees to work, makes the forceps grip and grasp, narrows his eyes at the portable screen showing the last few fragments from the bullet that must have splintered when it hit Tony in the chest, grazing off the rim of the Reactor.

His eyes roll up slightly to Jim, and the Soldier gives a nod, moving his hand to rest on Tony’s lower abdomen instead for a better vantage.

“Better,” Bruce huffs, nudging the forceps into the meat of Tony’s body, worming toward the next piece of casing, carefully extracting.

“You are doing wonderfully,” Wanda cheers quietly, trying not to do anything except keep him on his feet, worried she may jar him with such delicate work.

“I’ve mentioned it,” he returns absently, dropping the piece with the rest, and going back down, adjusting his shaky arm back on Jim’s. “You know, how I’m really not _good_ at this type of thing.”

Nat, gloved, is prepping for him, preparing the needle driver, “and yet, you always seem to be the first to step up.”

“Y’ killing his plausible deniability, Nats,” Jim inserts, only the third time he’s spoken since he carried Tony up the walkway of the Quinjet with Steve right beside him, trying to staunch the bleeding with a massive hand while the rest of the team ran right on their heels.

“Someone has to,” she comes back, eyes rolling over to him.

Bruce finally, gingerly pulls out the last shard with an audible sigh, “she likes to make things hard on me. If no one gave me trouble, I might try to take over the world.” And Bruce laughs a little sadly, looking up at Tony’s face for the first time since he began diagnosis and treatment, “With _Science_ , Tony.”

The other three Avengers with him laugh gently, shifting unconsciously to accommodate his next moves. Jim lowers his forearms just enough to make it a little easier on Bruce, Wanda takes a second to re-brace her feet and adjust her grip, Nat places the suture tray by Tony’s shoulder and nudges her arm under Bruce’s again.

“Holding steady,” Light interjects into the banter, the stethoscope in her ears, free hand presses the little disc right over the pulse in his wrist while her other hand keeps the scanner hovering over the span of bare chest above the site Bruce is working, watching the sharp shards deep in the mechanic’s chest for any movement, any indication the magnets are failing.

“Okay,” Bruce sags for just a second, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He uses a shaky his forearms to wipe it away and _breathes_ , “just hold on, Tony, we’re going to take care of the bleeder and run a better diagnostic on the arc reactor.”

Bruce gets slightly closer to the gurney, bare feet shuffling to brace his hip on Widow’s side against the edge a little better. He accepts the needle driver and secondary hemostat—

**

The next regularly scheduled black outs are…pretty terrible actually. Bits, pieces of data are such a pain in the _ass_ to work with.

(“Stay with me.” Jim…it’s really Jim and _God_ , he’s so fucking _beautiful_ and he’s _back_ …)

(“Tony, _Tony_ , look at me. _Look at me_.” Steve is the usual _Captain_ , but his voice is thicker, giving everything _away_ , but it’s okay…it’s _okay_ , Steve)

(“You cannot. You _shall_ not.” Hey Point Break, don’t grind those pearly whites like that)

(“Please, Tony, focus.” And she’s just a kid, just a kid…all alone. Just like he was once, before Rhodey and Pep and the team…She’ll always be able to come back to the Tower. She’ll always have a place there)

(“Stay awake, Stark,” but even super-assassin spy can’t cover up that _fear_ , and all the jokes, all the misdirection, all the missions, all the other _pain_ , and this is what it takes for Clint’s mask to _slip_ ).

Coming out of the pyramid and into the light, he’d snapped to abrupt, discerning consciousness realizing he was A) being carried like a terrible rom-com actress (so, _so_ humiliating—unless it was like that one Halloween and the high heels had been _killing_ him).  B) The _pain_ in his chest is just _fucking_ — (and Steve’s _hands_ are pressing against it, blood all over his half-gloves, those eyes glancing down at him in shifts while Jim is hauling the majority of his weight and _running_ , his expression absolutely stony). And C) the Quinjet is really just a great invention, stellar, who else could think of the components needed to—

_Out._

Next is Bruce’s strained face and drugs _galore_ because he can’t feel _shit._ (Shot to the chest because Nazis? Such assholes, really). His vision wavers (probably some blood loss tossed in for good measure) when he blinks _up_ and there’s Jim’s face hovering intently over his, gray eyes dark and brows furrowed like something is far, _far_ from okay.

You know, like when the _Yankees_ win.

“…Jim…” is raspy, broken because he _has_ to make sure it worked. Hell, he’d even take the Asset they all knew, loved, and still somewhat feared. Anything, _anything_ is better than the blank slate—

The soldier’s gaze snaps to, coming down to his face while someone presses against his abdomen again, and _pain_ flares to life regardless of drugs. He tries to get a full breath, but he _can’t_.

“ _Tony_ ,” and Jim hunkers down, putting their faces closer, “hey, _hey,_ doll face. Think ya might stay with me this time?” Jim’s tone sounds just as hoarse, pained, but _fucking God_ is he relieved to hear it, relieved right down to the metal in his damn chest.

Eyes half mast, Tony hums a little because it’s okay. It’s _okay_ now. Long-term memory, check.

“S-Steve…shrapnel…” and his words blur with the thoughts and reminder of blood inside the buzzing taking up the processing power of his brain.

Something tender gives way under something else _sharp_ and he grits his teeth, bites down on a yell (because Starks were made of _iron_ and he only screamed for the _real, fucking deal_ kind of pain) his synapsis slowly coming back on-line with the thrills running through his nerve endings.

“Cap’s gettin’ seen to,” Jim glances away, Tony’s eyes still sluggishly following, and there’s Cap, sitting in the co-pilot’s chair, half-turned, suit pulled down to his waist while Falcon finishes up winding bandages around his waist and up to his chest. The blonde heaves a sigh of relief when he catches Tony’s dazed eyes from around Widow’s hip.

Even better. Already taken care of, just…good things.

Such good things now.

“…hear me, Tony?” Wavers in and out like a terrible dial-up connection, but he’s drawn up to where Wanda is standing, almost engulfed in Bruce’s side, holding him up.

Tony’s brows furrow while he reasons it out. “Sssit,” he tries, “Bruce. Dead on…your feet.”

Nat’s arm under the good Doctor’s, holding him steady, just smirks down at ( _her_ ) their mechanic, “he’s trying to _science_ right now, Stark. Almost done.”

“Not with the arc reactor,” Bruce counters tiredly, hands still moving for the last few stitches, but Tony sniggers sloppily because _Nat_ _gets the joke_. “You’ve taken some damage, Tony. We had to make sure your lung didn’t collapse.”

Something moves slightly in his peripheral, a monitor, and he looks over to young but mean-looking medic. “Agent Doctor… looksss _mad_. Who—who made you… angry before…you had to treat me? Gonna send a… _thank-you-but-fuck-you_ card.”

The medic blinks down at him, already half-laughing. There, that’s better.

“I’m Dr. Light, Mr. Stark. Actually, I work for you.”

He makes a noise of appreciation, eyes sluggishly roving up around the Quinjet’s inner hull.

“Now that your vital are stable, I’m monitoring the shrapnel close to your heart,” and she looks much, much better when she smiles. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to shine this light in your eyes for just—” a flash and she’s already sitting down again, “all done.” The half-smile still in place while she tells Bruce, “pupils reactive.”

“Don’t know…how I feel…about this,” he counters, “we just—just met. Didn’t even wine…and dine me first.” So _rude_. Isn’t that against the first date rules or something?

She does that half-laugh thing again while watching the monitor; he’s satisfied she’s not frowning now. Good things. Angry medics make things hurt more. Happy ones let him sneak out of Medical AMA and conveniently forget to call people (like Pepper or…well, Steve is right over there anyway and Jim is mother-hen hovering anyway. _Damn_ ).

“Hey fella,” Jim says and it isn’t for the first time, so Tony slowly turns back to those grey eyes and his face changes into that goofy smile when he gets all _fond_ and drugs are probably involved. “Tell me ya got the spare reactor tweaked n’ ready, yeah?”

“Mmhm, done. Good. Works fine,” and he turns his head slightly, just close to Jim’s flesh hand while Bruce cuts the thread and Widow jumps in with antiseptic and bandages.

“Okay, okay,” and Jim is sighing down at him looking a little helpless and—

Now that they’re out and he’s back in his right fucking _mind,_ the talk he and Stevie were gonna have with the mechanic is blown _all ta hell_. Because now they _both_ know who was responsible for Howard and Maria. They both know it was _him_. With the previous knowledge unlocked by the tech in his brain that escaped the initial scans, James Barnes has a new section of horrific crimes burned into his fucking goddamned _ledger_.

And he wouldn’t even blame the fella if he wanted any number of things ranging from his withdraw from the Avengers to incarceration, for him to finally _pay_ for what he’s done. He wouldn’t _blame_ Tony for hating him, for being the weapon Hydra pointed, for causing him such grief.

( _I’m sorry, Tony, I’m so **sorry** it was me. I’m sorry I did it, I’m sorry they **made** me. I’m sorry I can’t go **back** , give ‘em **back** ta ya. God, I’m so fucking sorry…_ )

But those dazed, dark eyes keep him from moving away, pin him right in his spot like he’s frozen in cryo, almost taking the air right out of his chest.

“Steve legitimately… went out…without a sweater…and shrapnel, Jim. _Shrapnel_.  Go…go get ‘im.”

The crushing weight of his crimes (against _Tony_ ) eases only slightly while he chuffs out a laugh, and if his eyes are wet and hot, then only Tony can see it, can’t he?

“Update, Doctor Banner,” J.J. cuts through over the Quinjet’s overhead comm, “the Mark XIV is en route with the spare reactor and shall rendezvous at Stark Industries, Texas Division. ETA, fourteen minutes.”

“The outer casing,” Bruce says aloud while Tony looks away from Jim’s eyes to blink up at J.J.’s voice from the speakers, sounding _strained_. And it’s automatic for him to babble aloud, to assure the AI everything is fine, good things… _good things here_.

Bruce interjects into his slurred monologue ( _so rude Brucie-bear_ ), “Can you run a diagnostic J.J.? We need to know what we’re dealing with before we get there.”

“Of course, Doctor. A moment.”

His vision whites out for a long second.

“Scared us, ya idiot. Scared us right n’ proper,” Jim’s face hovers over his again when he can see, close enough for the soldier to press their foreheads together for a moment, not long enough, “Getting shot like that? I’d think you were the one taking all the stupid, yeah Tony?”

“Ancient… death machine,” and his lips are numb, fingertips right there too, “did you…did you know that? _Death machine_.”

The flesh hand moves, pauses indecisively, and then fingers are threading into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Yeah, yeah. You and you’re excuses. Death machine, ppft.” But Jim’s tone is still strained, half-hoarse.

“The arc reactor’s casing remains intact, Doctor Banner. However, the shrapnel in Sir’s chest—”

“I know, J.J., I know,” Bruce breathes out, glancing up at Light as a breath whooshes out.  “Okay, how much have we put in him so far?” he asks, weary to the bone, over his head while Tony stares up at Jim and makes noises at how nice the hand in his hair feels.

“Half the first unit, we have two more on stand-by,” Agent Doctor is calmly professional again.

“Steve’s fault,” Tony tries to fight unconsciousness, to keep swimming back _up_ , “he…wanted to split up. Star Spangled Man… with a… terrible fucking plan.”

Jim laughs a little, his smile making the laugh lines around his eyes more defined (but his eyes are watery and _Jim…_ ). “Both you’s are fucking nuts, Stark. Gonna make me old before my time.”

“Had to live…long enough for…you…kill us.” Mumbled and _dark_.

“Stay _awake_ , Tony. Wake-up!”

(Oops, long blink)

“My—My bad,” mumble and the metal hand on his jaw, Jim’s face closer, breath on his cheek.

“Gotta try to stay awake for me, Tony. Makes it easier to monitor how yer doing.”

He hums a little because, really, he’d do damn near _anything_ for James Buchanan Barnes.

Soft laugh against his face, “oh yeah? I’m gonna remember that when yer being a pain in the ass about comin’ outta the workshop.”

“Remember it…when—when your _arm_ …malfunctions…”

Even with the drugs in his system, his brain is coming closer to online (transfusions are beautiful things), his focus is more concrete. The expression on Jim’s face, the tension to his shoulders and back.

_The Winter Soldier killed Howard and Maria Stark under Hydra’s order—Jim…Jim Barnes wouldn’t have done it willingly. He never would have done it if he had a **choice** —_

The tech in his brain, the blank slate Winter Soldier, all of it was Hydra’s influence over an innocent man… Steve and _Tony’s_ James Buchanan Barnes.

“Tony,” and Jim’s voice sounds thick, wrecked, the hand in his hair twitches, tightens, and he breathes out.

And _yes_ , it’s a terrible thing to learn. It’s another fucking stab when you’re already hemorrhaging.  And _no,_ he’s not just _okay_ , he won’t be for a while. This mission is going to haunt him, is going to bring back the old memories, is going to hit him in every bad way he’s moved on from since that night.

But it’s _Jim_. _His_ Jim. His and Steve’s Jim.

( _And he’s got to make sure they **know** that, he’s got to live long enough to make them **believe** it_ )

He makes his drugged body work, moving a hand up to grip the metal hand by his head, looking up into those eyes.

Light looks up from her study of the shrapnel in Tony’s chest. “The magnets are functioning, Dr. Banner. For now, the arc reactor is doing the job.”

“Five minutes out!” Clint calls from the front, “what do we tell the bone-breakers waiting on Stark?”

Bruce nods, eyes half-mast. He opens his mouth to speak, give Clint a status report for the SI Texas doctors waiting on them, but his stamina gives out abruptly, and Bruce literally passes out on his feet. Wanda scrambles to adjust her hold, but Widow is the one using leverage and counterbalance to keep the doctor off the floor. Sam is already on the move, crossing the cockpit in three strides to bend down and heft the good doctor over one shoulder, Widow following to clear the “de-Hulk” cot.

Jim moves to take up the space where Bruce was standing, reaching for a pair of gloves from the box Light laid between Tony’s ankles. He hands a pair to Wanda, who gives him a trembling blink before her expression shifts, and she nods firmly, taking the gloves.  His metal hand is a bitch to maneuver without ripping the damn things, but he manages while looking over the bandages, watches the half-ass blinking of the reactor in Tony’s chest. Wanda tries to be gentle, place a hand on Tony’s shoulder, watching to make sure he stays conscious.

“How much do you know about that?” Dr. Light asks them, nodding to the malfunctioning device.

“Little,” Wanda replies while Tony starts babbling to her about upgrades to her body armor. She’s never been so happy to be bored to tears before and laughs a little at him.

“Not enough,” Jim answers, “never even taken it out. Cap might be able ta, hell, even Widow prob’ly.”

“We do _not_ need it out unless the polarities reverse or we have the spare. It’s functioning nominally right now and will hopefully keep—”

“Brace yourselves for landing,” Clint calls back, flipping switches for the gear to drop.

Red mist flows in an automatic reaction, Wanda gripping the side of the cot in one hand and Tony’s ankle in the other. He can feel the gloves and Jim is leaning over him, bracing, gripping the sides of the pull-out to keep touchdown from jarring the mechanic as much as possible.

And he might be drugged up a bit, still reeling from _this_ little trip on the _Good Ship Holy Shit Bad Guys_ , but Tony Stark is able to lift one heavy arm to reach up, to wind it around the Winter Soldier’s neck, dislodging Agent Doctor, to try breathing deep through the pain in his chest and hold the hell on. He turns just in time to see Steve’s baby blues peering at him over a shoulder briefly, checking on him and Jim, before he goes back to the control panel, working automatically to help get them on the ground.

He gets enough of Clint’s profile to see the tension; Sam and Nat holding Bruce on the de-Hulk bench while Vision brings up live feeds of the landing zone on top SI Houston.

His team… _their_ team and just…good things.

Good things.

**

The Mark XIV lands just as the medical team starts down the walkway of the Quinjet, surrounding the gurney while the Avengers form a tight half circle and follow. Thor is carrying Dr. Banner over one shoulder while watching their backs for anything incoming.

The suit opens up as soon as it touches down, spilling out a wide-eyed Pepper Potts. It takes her less than a snap to straighten and _move_ , falling right into the rush around the medical gurney. Widow subtly moves one of the secondary medical personnel to the side, making room for Stark Industries’ CEO to slot herself right in the mix, reaching down to grip Tony’s hand with the case containing the spare Arc Reactor in the other. She takes in the blood stains, bandages, bruises on his face and arms, with only a glance back at the Captain and over to the stone-cold face of the Winter Soldier (one who is holding the .45, eyes constantly moving to watch all sides), she sees more than most people probably would.

“Start talking,” and it’s the CEO making the demand grimly while Tony’s eyes flutter up at her and he grins sloppily.

Dr. Light, still by Mr. Stark’s left shoulder, gives her the preliminary report without pause. Everyone at SI _knows_ who to defer to when it comes to Mr. Stark (Iron Man…is another story).

While doctors are checking his vitals and asking him questions about inane crap, he listens more while Pepper is given the details. He ignores the other doctors around the moving gurney to start making slurred quips, trying to get Agent Doctor to laugh again. He almost succeeds, getting a half-smirk and some tisks. He counts it as a win.

“Surgery,” catches his attention, but the doctor that said it is talking to Steve, who looks worries as hell while they move.

Ceilings and inside, Pepper leaning over to talk to him, but he cuts her off, trying to make _sure_ things are taken care of. He babbles about food for his team, shrapnel, tech in the brain, a cot for Bruce, dumb ass insurance for Clint, more knives, _get a deck of UNO_ , make sure…strawberries… _strawberries, Pep_ …

Jim is saying his name again, but his flopping, reaching hand can’t _find_ —

_(“I love you.”)_

“S-Steve… _Jim_ …”

_Out_

**

“I’m sorry, Captain, we _have_ to keep it sterile.” The head surgeon is scrubbing with fast, efficient movements, casting looks to the double doors of the main room where Tony Stark is being prepped. “Your team needs to be completely scrubbed down, disinfected, gowned and gloved before anyone gets into the OR. If not, you could kill him. His immunities are low because of the arc reactor as it is, and I can’t chance any post-op infections.”

Gesturing to the viewing observatory above the OR, the doctor has to look both Captain America _and_ the Winter Soldier in the face, and tell them _no_. It’s fine, he used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D, he’s told a _lot_ of scary people “no.” One of the scariest is the Black Widow.

“Feel free to camp out in the Observation Deck. There’s an intercom, so you can hear us during the procedure and a call button if you want to ask for his progress. No one is going to mind, but as to letting _all_ the Avengers in? I _can’t_. Dr. Banner, yes, considering his knowledge of the reactor, but everyone else has to wait outside.”

The Captain’s jaw is clenched hard, his blue eyes cold, but he isn’t arguing. Instead, he turns just enough to give the Winter Soldier a pointed look.

And yes, the doctor is _aware_ of _who_ the Winter Soldier is, but the doctor just fits his mask over his face.

The cold grey eyes, the frigid promise of swift and bloody _retribution_ is right there in those eyes, the sudden knife in the Asset’s hand, the tip pointed _out_.

For the doctor, someone that had treated some of S.H.I.E.L.D’s most deadly agents, he already _knows_ what it means. Slowly, he holds up both sterilized hands in surrender.

“I get it,” he tells the Soldier directly, “he’s _Tony Stark._ However, the shrapnel is too far along, penetrating the right atria causing the bleed out. We have no _other option_ but to try. Even with the arc reactor, he’ll be dead in less than an hour if we don’t get his chest cleared. My team and I will do everything _possible_ to make sure he makes it out of surgery.”

Captain America sighs, a deep one that makes his whole raise slightly, and he lays a hand on the Winter Soldier’s shoulder without looking away; the effect is subtle as the Soldier eases down slightly. “Thank-you, Doctor, and please tell your people, too. Iron Man…is one of our _best_.” Behind his leg, where the Doc can’t _see_ , Bucky is gripping his hand tight and still manages to look like he might rip out someone’s internal organs for a rousing game of Twister.

“Of course, Captain.” And because Steve Rogers and James Barnes actually _look_ their ages (he can also read things like _bad mission_ and _he’s one of us_ ), the doctor pauses a second to go easy on them, “take my advice: get your people cleaned up and fed. Get injuries checked out,” a gesture to the torn stripes on the Captain’s uniform, “then go to the Observation Deck if you want to hold a vigil. We won’t be done for hours, so all of you have the time.”

A small smirk and the Captain arches a brow at him, “Doc’s orders?”

“I’ll leave saving the world to you and your people, Captain, leave this to me and mine.”

And the expression alone is enough to relay _don’t let me down, son. We’re counting on you_.

**

Before they put Tony under for the surgery, the explanations filtering through his brain at high speeds (luck has finally run _out_ , not even his tech is going to save his ass this time. At least he’s smart enough to be a little _afraid_ ), he grips the surgeon’s wrist, “if I don’t—if I don’t…tell Cap and Jim I meant it. Tell them. They’ll know.”

 _(“I love you.”_ )

A mask comes over his face while the surgeon promises to do just that (with a glance up at the two aforementioned Avengers standing against the plexi-glass of the Observation Room) and the drugs are good enough that he wants, _needs_ to sleep—not as worried about the metal in his chest as he is about his Brooklyn boys and wondering what the next step is going to be if he survives.

As his eyelids flutter against the too-bright lights and the real fight is starting to ramp up with moving, covered bodies, instrument trays, machinery ( _very_ different from his _usual_ ), he hopes it’s not too late.

 _You’ve got to carve it out when you can_.

And, well, if he lives, _that_ is going to be his new motto.

**

The running protocol of Stark Industries: _prepare for the worst—and have good hair while doing it._

By the time Steve and Jim join the other Avengers outside the OR prep room, a group of assistants are in full swing, taking food orders while walking the group down a few corridors to a massive elevator, talking about on-site facilities (usually kept for employees working on sleep deprivation and coffee _fumes_ , wonder where Tony got the idea to plan for _that_ ) to clean-up and rest if needed (two of them are eyeing Bruce still carried nonchalantly by Thor). Fresh clothes are already prepared and a feast will be waiting in the Observation Room.

Steve waves the group away into the elevator, staying behind while the sluggish arguments are cut-off by the doors sliding closed. Jim turns sideways, already moving to get between Natasha and Clint, but Steve just shakes his head, eyes going to Bruce’s unconscious form, Wanda holding herself tightly, V looking obviously worn (and _that guy_ is technically part android). The message is clear: _look out for our people_.

“Cap,” and Sam just gives him the _unhappy with your choices_ face.

“S’allright. Let ‘em get everyone taken care of. I’m going to stay in the Observation Room, lookout for Iron Man.”

He winks at Bucky, catches the small smirk behind worried eyes before turning on his heel to be the first on watch duty.

On the trek back, he stops medical personnel to ask directions, and grinning to himself at the subtle looks aimed in his direction; well, Captain America with the shield still on his back and dust from the battlefield all over him is probably enough of a spectacle to earn a few stares. SI Texas wasn’t the division that usually dealt with SSARAS or the Avengers when they descended on Tony’s place of business en masse (or to pick-up their mechanic from the extensive _hours_ he tends to keep in R &D).

Nat, as he expects, is the first one back (and only because he _knew_ Buck would be checking on everyone else before getting himself cleaned-up). She’s in her undercover mask since they’re not at the Tower or SSARAS Medical (and _yes_ , Bruce has the pictures of her in sweats and t-shirt, laying out asleep on a bench in the hallway while the Doc was still in with Clint that one time); she’s got a pencil skirt, professional blouse, and high heels, looking every bit like she belongs in an office somewhere. He’s standing at the large window when she slides silently beside him, and he hadn’t even bothered to take the shield off his back, or pick-up the Starktab one of the assistants left a few minutes ago. Her eyes catch it before joining him, watching the movement around Tony’s inert form, his chest cracked open, a yawning mouth where the blue circle of the arc reactor sat just an hour before.

Behind them are the quiet sounds of people setting up tables, laying out a varied spread.

“Twelve,” she answers the question he hadn’t even asked, “twelve pieces of shrapnel close enough to kill him. That’s what they’re going after.”

Numbly, the Captain nods, eyes all for the medical team working fast and efficient. And he _knows_ , just as much as she does, how precarious the balance is, how a gust of air in the wrong direction can tip the scales, can take a soldier, an agent, an assassin, a teammate, a friend, out of the fight. Their lives are too dangerous for the illusion of _forever_. But dammit, at this point, he’d take whatever he could _get_.

He breathes deep while Natasha stands solid at his side, her mask of _calm_ and _collected_ flawless, except for the smallest bit of tensions she carries in her spine.

“Everyone else get taken care of?”

A quirk to her mouth because _honestly_ , he’s one of her favorites (even if, as Clint suspects, they are _all_ her favorite in some way), “James is already your errand boy, Steve.”

And she sees him in _Captain_ mode trying very, very hard not be in _best friend_ and _lover_ mode while watching.

Once the catering people finally left in a flurry of trays and wonderful smelling food, Natasha finally turns on him, “all right, what happened out there?”

“I haven’t written the de-brief yet,” he hedges, blue eyes sliding over to her profile without really turning.

Her eyes narrow on general principal. Steve Rogers as Captain America is the world’s oldest Boy Scout; if he isn’t giving her the details, it’s not something he wants the team to _know_.

“There are a _lot_ of questions, Captain. One including how the Red Skull and his crew were able to re-program James into a blank-slate Winter Soldier.”

With her assessing look, he finally sighs and rubs his forehead tiredly with one hand; the turmoil is there, written right on his face.

“Steve,” she grips his wrist, grounding him, like the times when he was newly out of the ice and the world seemed _so damn loud_ , “we’re here to solve things _together_ , remember?”

And _yes_ , dammit, Nat has a way of throwing your own words back in your _face_.

“It all…went _sideways_ ,” a hoarse admission while he watches them split open Tony’s chest, and the Captain’s heart beats faster with fear ( _with one of his fellas on that table, for a horrible second, he’s back in the damn machine before the Vita-Rays hit_ ), he swallows around the knot in his throat, blinking back those old memories, seeing their engineer laid out like a sacrifice. “Tony—Tony was only talking in theories, he didn’t…He didn’t _know_ for sure, but he thought it was some tech in Bucky’s brain his scans didn’t pick-up. That’s why they were so sure the code word would _work_ no matter what. And it did. They wiped him completely, and… _and_ ,” Steve breathes through it, closing his eyes a second, and the hand on his wrist, moving to his arm is Nat’s, not the Widow’s, “The Soldier admitted…one of his Missions was to kill Howard and Maria Stark. He…He told Tony he was the one that killed his parents.”

He looks for it even though he’s _known_ Nat long enough to knew exactly where she’s _at_ in those clothes, in that mask, he still looks for some outer tick of surprise or disbelief. He can almost tell himself she’d always known, too.

“If Skull hadn’t have stopped him, Buck would have snapped Tony’s neck to complete that Mission.”

It’s telling that she can pick him out from a mile away, “we dumped most of that data onto the Internet, Steve. Tony picked it all up after we exposed Hydra.”

Gripping his own elbows tighter (one of those stupid ticks from being the skinny guy), he admits to it hesitantly, and she realizes _he hadn’t told anyone_ , “I had enough time to get into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database before the fight on the bridge of the Helicarrier.”

“You removed that part of his file?” She asks lightly, a brow arched. “Mr. Lost-in-Time _hacked_ into S.H.I.E.L.D? By yourself? Tony is going to be _so proud_.”

The laugh is a rusty, painful thing, bringing both their gazes back to the operating table, “wasn’t hard. Maria Hill just got up from her computer, so all I needed to do was get into the file.”

Now she’s the one laughing, shaking her head in genuine mirth and stupid, _stupid_ luck before that Helicarrier went down over DC and Hydra’s secrets were revealed to the world via the World Wide Web.

In agreement, the two of them turn back to the live operations while Nat still smirks and Steve feels slightly less like a terrible human being.

“I didn’t tell him. And I didn’t tell him that I _knew_ about it when Bucky came to the Tower.” Is the low confession, his eyes seeking out hints of dark hair and appendages around the gowned doctors working fast and efficient. “Didn’t tell Buck either.”

Nat hums because there is a whole _new_ level of complication for them (and if she _doesn’t_ throw her lot in again, to give them a very subtle _push_ , Clint is going breakdown, lock them together, and ride it out until Tony stops being an idiot), and if there’s anything she’s _learned_ in her time as a Red Room operative, a KGB agent, a spy and assassin for other organizations, it’s that if you give people enough space and quiet, they’ll get to the root of the problem themselves. Or so she would have _said_ if she hadn’t met _these three_.

The Captain starts to acknowledge the elephant in the room, the one the others probably already _knew_ about. “S’lot to ask someone, Nat. To forgive the man that murdered your kin. Forgive the one that kept it all a secret.”

“It _is_ a lot to ask someone,” she agrees, waiting for Steve to finally _say it_.

And the Captain slouches, his shoulders drop, and he starts looking more like _Steve Rogers_. “He…he’s not going to come back to us after this. Hell, who would _blame_ him?”

 _There it is_. _The fear_.

“And I don’t know how this is effecting Buck. There were apparently more _memories_ with the blank-slate programming ‘cause he didn’t remember killing Howard and Maria until they activated it.”

“We’ll talk to Xavier again after Tony’s out of danger,” she gives him the needed support (even though she can already _predict_ this outcome). “James…James Barnes made it through the first de-programming and de-brief with fewer issues than we could have anticipated, Steve. He’ll make it through this one.” She truly does _believe_ it and interjects that confidence, making it an obvious conclusion. She sees enough tension bleed out of Steve’s face to make her satisfied she’s convinced him.

There’s an alarm of some sort on the floor below, and the scrambling makes both of them pause, makes both of them press closer to the glass on instinct. Something is injected into Tony’s IV and things seem to ease back down to the standard level of _experimental emergency_ _operation_. Steve’s hand is shaking slightly when he runs it down his face and tries again to see around the moving bodies.

“And Tony?”

Asked so quietly she turns to give a raised brow to be sure she heard him.

“Tony,” she declares, “is going to live. He’s too stubborn to die. Then, he’s going to mourn. There’s nothing either of you can do about that. He’s _earned_ the right to grieve now that he knows the full story. He’ll be angry, of course. More at you than James because he trusted you _first_ , Steve.”

And Steve is nodding along, listening while a dirty hand stays on the glass.

“But…I think you’re going to be surprised how _little_ groveling you’re going to have to do to get back into his good graces.”

Another forehead rub, and Nat does her _thing_ in this mask, steps uncomfortably close, the line of her arm against the back of his, her face falling naturally into calm, neutral lines.

“We survived an alien _invasion_ , Captain. I think this one might be closer to Mr. Stark’s _minor setback_ unit of measurement.”

He chuff out a laugh at that, finally able to roll his shoulders a little, to take the shield _off_ his damn back and put it the hell down. Nat sits, watches, assesses while the doctors work and their commentary is a low hum from the speakers in the top right corner of the room.

“He told me, out _there_ , about the amount of _oh_ and _shit_ that makes up that system, you know.”

She hums a little, watching him, looking for the minute flinch and ticks indicating residual pain from injuries, the slower reactions from exhaustion and strain, but it takes someone like _her_ to catch them at all. Just the kind of person the Captain is, one that can keep fighting.

She finally moves to one of the comfortable chairs, folds herself down demurely and waits with a raised brow. Steve just grins and sits. Both of them watching the live operation and idly talk about the details, sitting side-by-side in familiar lines with the same old observations until a freshly showered Sam makes an appearance, ready for the vigil, and shoves a bottle of water at the Captain accompanied by _the look_.  He also is the first one to get a plate of food, chewing tiredly while watching the surgery with narrow eyes and giving his own two cents about the _ancient death machine_.  

The spread is further raided with everyone that comes in, mostly in some variation of SI sweatpants and shirts, and any injuries properly tended (and _yes_ , Tony’s people really _are_ that good). Wanda is smiling because she has a handful of fresh strawberries on her plate. Clint gives her an evil eye, laying down a mini-sandwich on her plate as well.

Once Nat and Sam, Clint, V, and Wanda were in some stage of sitting back, conversing, or eating, Steve finally let himself stand at their cajoling and severe mother-hen looks, moving to get out of his grimy uniform (everything is _healing_ , no medical needed, not that he actually _said_ he was going).  Hefting the shield, the Captain manages a low chuckle while being physically _pushed_ out the door. They were all in attendance, Tony would be well-guarded, you need a shower, or so Wanda with a wrinkled nose as she basically pushed him out of the room.

One of the SI attendants showed him the way to the Avenger’s suite of rooms, let him know clothing was inside for him and Sergeant Barnes, and please press some jumble of numbers from the phone if he needed anything.

He inhaled the details just enough to nod and thank her for her help, watch her walk away before he let himself in Buck’s room and let the Captain stay outside.

 It’s Steve that strips down with a wince, that puts the shield subtly under the bed, that pulls out clothes to fit him and Buck, that unwinds the bandages and decides medical ain’t _necessary._ He feels more like _himself_ as he goes to the muffled sounds of running water behind the bathroom door.

“Bucky? S’me. Can I—” he breathes out harshly, “ _please_ can I—”

“S’open, punk,” is the tired reply, sounding almost as beat as Steve _felt_. “C’min and lemme wash ya down.”

The mist of moist, warm air always does wonders when he’s close to the ice again; the warmth somehow grounds him in the here and now when all his body thinks is _crashing_ , _drowning_. Behind the hazy shower door, he sees Bucky’s profile, a blur of pink/red skin under the spray but can’t tell what expression is on his fella’s _face_.

With jerky movements born of sore, pulled muscles and emotional weight, Steve manages to get his undershirt and shorts off, letting them drop wherever. He breathes out when the shower door opens and the flesh hand is held out for him to grab, pulling him in and right against more warmth of Bucky’s chest and arms, giving Steve the permission he needs to slump a little in the firm hold.

Without really thinking, he ducks down to nose against the hinge of Buck’s jaw, let one arm wrap around those shoulders, and holds on to his best friend like he might disappear ( _or become that emptiness again_ ).

And it’s _nice_ to stand against the hot spray of water and support one another, hold on to one another while their unofficial third is having life-threatening surgery a dozen floors below them; it’s _nice_ to share their fears and pains. Buck babbles about more faces, more blood, about Howard and Maria, about how he wasn’t even in any kind of _control_ when the Winter Soldier was going to kill Tony, _would have_ ripped his throat _right the fuck out, Stevie_ , _Jesus Christ_. _Jesus fucking Christ_.

And Steve Rogers listens and soothes with soft noises, pulls his fella in just that much tighter against his body and waning strength, trying to calm him down, to tell him he wasn’t at fault for the things those bastards did to him, tells him how much he _loves_ him, what a good man he _is_ regardless of everything he’s been forced to do and endure. Steve tells him that Tony isn’t going to hate him for this; he’s going to be pissed at Steve for not telling him the details, and he was going to mourn, all the old pain and regrets probably going to come back and bite Tony in the ass, giving Buck Nat’s observations to make them both a little more _sane_. He tells Bucky that, if Tony would let them, if he could stand the _sight_ of them, they’d be there to help him through it all. They wouldn’t let him keep up with his idiotic version of _the right thing_. Nope, they were going to go through with the initial plan, and if—if Tony _lives_ through the surgery, if he didn’t make them leave his Tower and his life, they were going to tell him in no uncertain terms that he was _theirs_ until the three of them couldn’t stand the sight of each other and maybe even _then_ they wouldn’t let him go. _Not again, Buck, we ain’t gonna let it happen_.

Gripping Steve desperately, Jim calms down in degrees. His arm tightens around Steve’s waist when he feels like he isn’t going to fall apart anymore, earning a sharp intake of breath from the blonde.

“Shit. Sorry, Stevie, forgot,” and Jim almost makes it to step back, give his fella a little breathing room since those injuries are still _tender_ , but Steve won’t let him go, not far enough to get away.

Instead, Jim laughs a little sadly, fumbles for a washcloth with one hand and starts getting whatever skin of Steve’s he can reach. He’s absurdly gentle around the injuries, trying to make sure he gets all the dirt and grime from captivity and fighting, subtle in checking the healing but raw wounds from shrapnel and the fight against Red Skull and Hydra (and Stevie is still favoring that knee now that no one’s lookin’).

In tandem, they dry one another off and dress in the clothes provided by SI, even the socks and sneakers. Steve automatically grips Jim’s hand while they make their way back to the Observation Room, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of the metal hand. When they’re alone on the elevator, Steve pulls his fella back into an embrace, taking just enough time to rest his cheek on Buck’s wet hair and sigh.

They’re standing side-by-side when the elevator opens, the nice assistant still there with her Starktab, walking the Captain and Winter Soldier back to the Observation Room with the other Avengers.

In the OR below, Tony is still breathing, still _fighting_ , and the two of them let out audible breaths in relief.

When the two super soldiers make their appearance, the others sit up and take _notice_ (and _yes_ , they _know_ Jim was a blank-slate Winter Soldier, but it isn’t enough to keep them _away_ , not anymore). Wanda, scowling majestically, is tisking right in Bucky’s face, standing on her toes to try and get more height, waving a finger at him because _yes_ , he made sure everyone was checked out by the on-call physicians, but he didn’t get _himself_ checked out at all! The shorter, more petite young woman has _no_ qualms gripping his metal wrist and hauling him down the steps to one of the doctors in the Observation Room with them (Clint hadn’t hesitated to ask for a doctor in since their super soldiers were annoyingly insistent that their teammates be looked over but more often than not refused to do it for themselves).

The only thing Sam has to do is narrow his eyes at Steve, and Cap just immediately _gives up_ , throwing up both hands in an _I surrender, don’t stab me_ motion before Nat and Clint can brandish weapons to get their way.  He lets himself be lead to the chair next to Buck’s as the doc talks quietly, asks him how he’s feeling, if he has any residual headache from the EMP and whatever tech Tony said was in his brain. Steve listens while the doc tells them they have a more medical equipment here than SI New York and it’s very possible Tony’s scans failed to find the nanites in Bucky’s brain because the scans weren’t as intensive or focused on the brain itself—the running theory is the nanites would have been invisible to scans checking for mechanical additions to the human body, hiding deep in the grey matter to mask their presence from certain technical geniuses. If the nanites had been programmed to give off signatures similar to the firing between dendrites in the brain, that could give them the needed answers as well as how Hydra keeps their people in line.

The doc promises they won’t do anything until Mr. Stark comes through surgery okay. After they ascertain he’s going to live, however, the doc asks him for permission to take a few more scans in different types of equipment.

Jim blinks at him, eyes sliding to the room below them and the mechanic on the table. “After he’s recovered enough ta be seen, yeah. Do whatcha’ like.”

In the end, Steve refuses an X-ray because he’s not leaving the Observation Room unless bad guys randomly attack this division of SI (and _if that happens_ while his two best fellas are in this kinda shape _,_ he is going to make Sam’s catchphrase, _about time to break **bad** , _a reality), not until the surgery is over. Besides, he’s already pretty well good to go anyhow.

When the doors open, the team is on their feet, hoping one of the docs from downstairs had come up with a progress report since all the muttering down there is still mostly muted and vague; instead, they get Pepper Potts and James Rhodes coming through the doorway.

The team makes room for Pepper and Rhodey, Vision and Sam handing out water and plates of food, refusing to take _no_ for an answer.  Instead, the Avengers crowd around the viewing window in chairs, make terrible jokes, and watch the progress.

**

His processes are slow, sluggish, but _dammit_ , his brain is back online—well, online enough to _know_ he has drugs, wonderful, beautiful drugs in his system to makes sure what’s probably _searing pain_ in his chest dull to nonexistent to his synapsis.

Really, he’s fine with that. Hell, _waking up_ in general considering where he’d been before all the lights went out? He’s already ahead of the game.

When a soft huff and snoring comes from just this side of his right hip, he manages to tilt his head enough to see Jim right there, bracing his head on an arm, and sleeping while he half lays on the bigger-than-normal (of course it is, everything at SI is larger than life) hospital bed.

A blinking, sleepy look around and Steve is resolutely on his other side, a little further up but still just as out cold. Around his private room, the whole team is propped up or laying down on any number of furnishings (and his people are getting a raise for taking care of the Avengers. Oh yeah, he’s going to see to that). Pepper is caught between Clint and Sam, the two bracketing her on a comfortable-looking couch, facing outwards so any attack would be immediately dealt with. V, who doesn’t really need sleep _per say_ , still has to recharge himself and the organic material making up his body; he’s sitting on the floor, his head tilted to rest on Wanda’s knees—at some point, her hand had found way to the back of his neck and seemed to stay there. Bruce and Nat are the most precious, he thinks woozily, staring at his best Science Bro, who is snoring softly with his cheek against the top of Nat’s red-head (and, of course, she’s facing the door).

Thor, however, is the only one awake, standing by one window looking over the skyline; Hammertime is out of his usual armor and Tony makes a soft, inquiring noise.

Luckily, the two soldiers around his body move just slightly but don’t wake up.

Thor, however, turns, his eyes an electric blue through the dim room, almost like the arc reactor—

That he doesn’t have anymore.

The God crosses the room with silent steps and a small smile that makes the lines by his eyes crinkle. He reaches out to grip Tony’s shoulder with one massive hand, and even though he’s drugged as hell, he knows the hold is pretty light considering the God usually pats them on the back with the force of a small explosion.

“’Tis good you awaken, friend,” Thor leans down to speak quietly, “how fare you?”

Tilting his head on the pillow, Tony grins loopily back at him, “you’re my favorite, you know.”

A soft laugh and Thor just shakes his head, “I’m afraid I cannot disobey your healers and bring you coffee. Pepper is indeed frightening when she wishes to be so.”

 _Damn, already thwarted_. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” but the words sound garbled and slurred. Thor seems to get the sentiment.

He nods sagely, “attempt to stay awake and I shall find your nurse. She will allow you something, I am certain.”

“Thanksss, Big Guy. Glad everyone’s…okay.”

The smile he gets in return is directed to the two super-soldiers by his hips, and Thor pointedly hikes up a brow. And _yes_ , Thor, _he gets it_.

Tony raises one hand to wave Thor away, looking back down at them before the God is even creeping out of the room. Just the sounds of soft breathing, of the heart monitor beeping, of the sighs of shifting bodies and cloth.

It’s fine. He gets to have time to look at his favorite soldiers while being absurdly happy he’s alive and well, can take a really, really deep breath.

Good things.

And he might shift slightly when his ass cheek goes all pins and needs, making both of them jerk from their respective places.

Jim jerks upright like he’s been triggered, eyes wide even if he’d been snoring less than a second ago. Steve is more sluggish but no less alert.

“Tony!”

“You’re—!”

“Ssshhh,” he tries, making himself lean up just slightly.

“But you’re okay—”

“God, we were so—”

“Ssshhh.” He tries a little harder, following up with a hand making it to Steve’s shoulder and the back of Jim’s neck. He doesn’t care when the two of them tense up under his tingly hands; _nope_ , he just needs them to relax a little and give him the warm back.

Jim’s eyes go half-mast when Tony’s hand on the back of his neck tightens, doesn’t fight it at all when he’s pulled into the niche of Tony’s hip, the side of his face pillowed by thigh and bone that’s actually comfortable. He blinks a bit at Steve, who’s already taken Tony’s hand gently in both his, but the mechanic only smiles and leads Steve back down too, feeling much better when they both finally drift off again.

His people are here. He gets to live (things are looking up). And, he might have to have a very serious conversation when the euphoria from the combination of drugs and endorphins (did he mention _being alive, yay!_ ) wear off. For the moment, he can be absurdly happy looking at a very bright future literally laying in his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love comments and kudos. As always, thanks for reading.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Differences and Viewpoints](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6929929) by [IllusoryCrystal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IllusoryCrystal/pseuds/IllusoryCrystal)




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